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THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES 

RICHARD BALDOCK 

EXTON MANOR 

THE SQUIRE DAUGHTER 

THE ELDEST SON 

THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 

THE GREATEST OF THESE 

THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 

WATERMEADS 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON ABBEY 

THE GRAFTONS 

THE CLINTONS, AND OTHERS 

SIR HARRY 

MANY JUNES 

A SPRING WALK IN PROVENCE 

PEGGY IN TOYLAND 

THE HALL AND THE GRANGE 



THE 

SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


BY 


ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 

Author of 

Exton Manor, The Eldest Son 
etc. 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1921 



Published October, 1912 
by 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 




t 


41 




PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 


TO 


ANSTEY GUTHRIE 


V 


* 




t 


r 








I 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

A Court Ball 

. 


1 

II 

In the Bay of Biscay . 


• 

13 

III 

The Clintons of Kencote . 



26 

IV 

Clintons Young and Old . 



SI 

V 

Melbury Park 



57 

VI 

A Good Long Talk 



73 

VII 

The Rector .... 



92 

VIII 

By the Lake 



108 

IX 

The Question of Marriage 



126 

X 

Town Versus Country 



140 

XI 

A Wedding .... 



155 

XII 

Food and Raiment 



167 

XIII 

Ronald Mackenzie 



183 

XIV 

The Plunge .... 



201 

XV 

Bloomsbury .... 



210 

XVI 

The Pursuit 



225 

XVII 

The Contest 



240 

XVIII 

After the Storm . 



253 

XIX 

The Whole House Upset . 



272 

XX 

Mrs. Clinton 



288 

XXI 

Cicely’s Return . 



305 

XXII 

The Life .... 


• 

322 





■1 


CHAPTER I 


A COURT BALL 

“ I RECOLLECT the time,” said the Squire, ‘‘ when 
two women going to a ball w'ere a big enough load 
for any carriage. You may say what you like about 
crinolines, but I’ve seen some very pretty women in 
them in my time.” 

There were three people in the carriage passing 
slowly up the Mall in the string, with little jerks 
and progressions. They were the Squire himself, 
Mrs. Clinton, and Cicely, and they were on their 
way to a Court Ball. 

The Squire, big, florid, his reddish beard touched 
with grey falling over the red and gold of his 
Deputy-Lieutenant’s uniform, sat back comfortably 
beside his wife, who was dressed in pale lavender 
silk, with diamonds in her smooth, grey-yellow hair. 
She was short and rather plump. Her grey eyes, 
looking out on the violet of the night sky, the trees, 
and the crowd of hilarious onlookers who had not 
been invited to Buckingham Palace, had a patient 
and slightly wistful expression. She had not spoken 
since the carriage had left the quiet hotel in 
which they were staying for their fortnight in 
London. 


2 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Cicely sat on the back seat of the carriage. On 
such an occasion as this she might have been ex¬ 
pected to be accorded the feminine privilege of 
sitting at the side of her mother, but it had not 
occurred to the Squire to offer it to her. She was 
a pretty girl, twenty-two years of age, with a fair 
skin and abundant brown hair. She was dressed in 
costly white satin, her gown simply cut. As she 
had stood before her glass, while her mother’s maid 
had held for her her light evening cloak, her beauti¬ 
ful neck and shoulders had seemed warmly flushed by 
contrast with the dead pallor of the satin. She also 
had hardly spoken since they had driven off from 
their hotel, which was so quiet and private that it 
was hardly like an hotel, and where some of the 
servants had stood in the hall to see them get into 
their carriage, just as they might have done at home 
at Kencote. 

It was a great occasion for Cicely. Her brothers 
—Dick, who was in the Grenadier Guards, and 
Humphrey, who was in the Foreign Office—^were 
well enough used to the scenes of splendour offered 
by a London season, but Cicely had hardly ever 
been in London at all. She had been brought up 
four years before to be presented, and had been 
taken home again immediately. She had seen noth¬ 
ing of London gaieties, either then or since. Now 
she was to enjoy such opportunities of social inter¬ 
course as might be open to the daughter of a rich 
squire who had had all he wanted of town life 


A COURT BALL 


3 


thirty years before, and had lived in his country 
house ever since. A fortnight was as long as the 
Squire cared to be away from Kencote, even in the 
month of June; and a fortnight was to be the extent 
of Cicely’s London season. This was to be the crown¬ 
ing night of it. 

The Squire chattered on affably. He had had 
a good dinner and had not been hurried over it, or 
afterwards. That was the worst of those theatres, 
he would say; they didn’t give you time even to 
drink your glass of wine; and he had not been 
affable with his wife and daughter the evening before, 
when driving to the play. But now he was rather 
pleased with himself. He did not care for all this 
sort of thing, of course; he had had quite enough 
of it as a subaltern, dancing about London all 
night, and going everywhere—all very well for a 
young fellow, but you got tired of it. Still, there 
was a certain flavour about a Court Ball, even for 
a one-time subaltern in the Blues, who had taken 
part in everything that was going on. Other peo¬ 
ple scrambled for such things—^they had to if they 
wanted them, and why they should want them if they 
didn’t come to them naturally, the Squire couldn’t 
tell. To a man of the importance of Edward Clin¬ 
ton of Kencote, they came as a matter of course, 
and he accepted them as his due, but was pleased, 
too, at having his social importance recognised in 
such a way, without his stirring a finger. As a 
matter of cold fact, a finger had been stirred to 


4 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


procure this particular honour, although it had not 
been his. But of that he was not aware. 

The carriage drove slowly with the rest into the 
big court-yard, where a military band was playing 
bright music. Cicely suddenly felt exhilarated and 
expectant. They drove up before the great entrance, 
red-carpeted, brightly lit, and went through the hall 
up the stairs into the cloak-room. Cicely had a 
flush on her cheeks now as she waited for her mother, 
who seemed to be taking an interminable time to settle 
her lace and her jewels. Mrs. Clinton looked her 
over and her eyes brightened a little. “ Are you 
nervous, darling? ” she asked; and Cicely said, “ No, 
mother, not a bit.” The scent of flowers was in her 
nostrils, the strains of the music expectantly in her 
ears. She was going to dance in a royal palace, 
and she was such a country mouse that she was 
excited at the prospect of seeing royalty at close 
quarters. She had been far too nervous to take in 
anything when she had been presented, and that had 
been four years ago. 

They went out and found the Squire waiting for 
them. He did not ask them, as he generally did, 
why they had been so long. 

They seemed to go through interminable wide 
corridors, decorated in red and gold, with settees 
against the walls and beautiful pictures hanging 
above them, but came at last to the great ball¬ 
room. 

Cicely drew her breath as she entered. This was 


A COURT BALL 


5 


better than the Meadshire County Ball, or the South 
Meadshire Hunt Ball. The women were mostly in 
white, or pale colours, but their jewels were beyond 
anything she had ever imagined. The lights from 
the great lustre chandeliers seemed to be reflected in 
those wonderful clusters and strings and devices of 
sparkling gems. Cold white and cold fire for the 
women, colour for the men. Scarlet and gold pre¬ 
dominated, but there were foreign attaches in uni¬ 
forms of pale blue and silver, and other unfamiliar 
colours, eastern robes and dresses encrusted with 
jewels or richly embroidered in silks. It was gor¬ 
geous, a scene from fairyland. 

There was a sudden ebhing of the tide of chatter. 
The band in the gallery began to play “ God save 
the King.” Doors were thrown open at the end of 
the great room, and the royal party came in slowly, 
passed down the open space on the red carpet be¬ 
tween the lines of bowing and curtseying guests, and 
took their places on the dais. Cicely gazed her fill 
at them. They were just as she had seen them a 
hundred times in pictures in the illustrated papers, 
but more royal, and yet, more human. 

They danced their opening quadrille, and after 
that every one could dance. But of all the people 
there Cicely knew no one who would be likely to 
dance with her. She sat by her mother on one of the 
raised settees that ran in four rows the length of the 
room. The Squire had found friends and was talking 
to them elsewhere. Her brother Dick, who she knew 


6 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


■was to have been there, she had not yet seen. Every¬ 
thing depended upon him. Surely, people did not 
come casually late to a Court Ball! If something had 
prevented his coming at all, it seemed to her that 
she would have to sit there all the evening. 

Her eyes brightened. There was Dick making his 
way towards them. He looked very smart in his 
guardsman’s uniform, and very much at home with 
himself, as if the King’s ball-room was no more to him 
than any other ball-room. He was always provok- 
ingly leisurely in his movements, and even now he 
stopped twice to talk to people whom he knew, and 
stood with them each time as if he would stay there 
for ever. Really, Dick could be almost as provok¬ 
ing as the Squire, where their womenfolk were con¬ 
cerned. 

But at last he came, smiling very pleasantly. 
“Hullo, mother!” he said. “Hullo, Siskin! Now 
you’ve seen the Queen in her parlour, eh? Well, 
how do you like yourself? ” 

He was a good-looking fellow, Dick, with his 
well-shaped, closely cropped head, his well-trained 
moustache, his broad, straight shoulders and lean 
waist and hips. He was over thirty, but showed 
few signs as yet of the passing of youth. It was 
quite plain by the way he looked at her that he was 
fond of his sister. She was nearly ten years younger 
than he and still a child to him, to be patronised 
and petted, if she was taken notice of at all. He 
didn’t take much notice of his mother, contenting 


A COURT BALL 


7 


himself with telling her that she “ looked as smart 
as any of ’em.” But he stood and talked to Cicely, 
and his eyes rested on her as if he were proud of 
her. 

In the meantime the delicious strains of a valse 
were swinging through the great room, and the 
smooth floor was full of dancers, except in the space 
reserved for the royalties, where only a few couples 
were circling. Cicely’s feet were moving. “ Can’t 
we dance, Dick.?^ ” she said. 

“ Come on,” said Dick, “ let’s have a scurry,” and 
he led her down on to the floor and floated her out 
into a paradise of music and movement. Dick was 
the best partner she had ever danced with. He had 
often snubbed her about her own dancing, but he 
had danced with her all the same, more than most 
brothers dance with their sisters, at country balls, 
which were the only balls she had ever been to. He 
was a kind brother, according to his lights, and 
Cicely would have liked to dance with him all the 
evening. 

That, of course, was out of the question. Dick 
knew plenty of people to dance with to-night, if 
she didn’t. In fact, he seemed to know half the people 
in the room, although he gave her the impression 
that he thought Court Balls rather mixed aflPairs. 
“ Can’t be certain of meeting your friends here,” 
he said, and added, “ of course,” as admitting hand¬ 
somely that people might be quite entitled to be asked 
who did not happen to be his friends. “ You’re not 


8 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


the only country cousins, Siskin,” he said, which 
gave Cicely somehow a higher opinion of herself, 
his dissociation of himself in this matter of country 
cousinhood from his family striking her as nothing 
unreasonable. Indeed, it was not unreasonable with 
regard to the Clintons, the men taking their part, as 
a matter of course, in everything to which their 
birth and wealth entitled them, so long as they cared 
to do so, the women living, for the most part, at 
home, in a wide and airy seclusion. 

“Want to dance, eh.?” said Dick, in answer to 
her little plea. “ All right. I’ll bring up some young 
fellows.” 

And he did. He brought up a succession of them 
and delivered them off-hand to his mother and sister 
with a slight air of authority, doing his duty very 
thoroughly, as a kind brother should. 

Most of them were quite young—as young, or 
younger than Cicely herself. Some of them wore the 
uniform of Dick’s own regiment, and were presum¬ 
ably under his orders, professionally if not in private 
life. Some of them were amazingly patronising and 
self-possessed, and these did not ask Cicely to dance 
again. She felt, when they returned her to her 
mother, that she had not been a success with them. 
Others were boyish and diffident, and with them she 
got on pretty well. With one, a modest child of 
nineteen or so with a high-sounding title, she was 
almost maternally friendly, and he seemed to cling to 
her as a refuge from a new and bewildering world. 


A COURT BALL 


9 


They ate ices together—he told her that he had 
been brought up at home in Ireland under a priest, 
and had never eaten enough ices at a sitting until he 
had joined his regiment a fortnight before. He could 
not dance well, indeed hardly at all, although he 
confessed to having taken lessons, and his gratitude 
when Cicely suggested that they should go and look 
at some of the rooms instead, warmed her heart to 
him and put their temporary friendship on the best 
possible footing. 

They stayed together during three dances, went 
out on to the terrace, explored wherever they were 
permitted to explore, paid two visits to the buffet, 
and enjoyed themselves much in the same way as 
if they had been school-children surreptitiously 
breaking loose from an assembly of grown-ups. The 
boy became volubly friendly and bubbling over with 
unexpected humour and high spirits. He tried to 
persuade Cicely to stay away from the ball-room for 
a fourth dance. Nobody would miss them, he ex¬ 
plained. But she said she must go back, and when 
they joined the crowd again her partner was haled 
off with a frightened look to the royal circle, and she 
found her mother standing up before the seat on 
which she had sat all the evening searching anxiously 
for her with her eyes, and her father by her 
side. 

An old man, looking small and shrunken in his 
heavy uniform, but otherwise full of life and kindli¬ 
ness, with twinkling eyes and a short white beard, 


10 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


was with them, and she breathed a sigh of relief, 
for if she was not frightened of what her mother 
might say about her long absence, she rather dreaded 
the comments her father might be pleased to pass on 
it. But her kinsman. Lord Meadshire, Lord-Lieu¬ 
tenant of the county, a great magnate in the eyes 
of the world, was to her just a very kind and playful 
old man, whose jokes only, because of their inherent 
feebleness, caused her any discomfort. Cousin Hum¬ 
phrey would preserve her from the results of her 
fault if she had committed one. 

“ Well, my dear,” he said in an affectionate, rather 
asthmatical voice, “ you’ve brought us some of the 
Meadshire roses, eh, what? Hope you’re enjoying 
yourself. If you had come a little earlier, I would 
have asked you to dance with me.” 

‘‘ Where have you been so long. Cicely ? ” asked 
her mother, but the twinkle in Lord Meadshire’s eyes 
showed that a joke was in progress, and he broke 
in hurriedly, “Forty or fifty years earlier, I mean, 
my dear,” and he chuckled himself into a fit of 
coughing. 

The Squire was not looking quite pleased, but 
whatever the cause of his displeasure it was not, 
apparently. Cicely’s prolonged absence, for he also 
asked if she was enjoying herself, and looked at her 
with some pride and fondness. Going home in the 
carriage, she learned later that Lord Meadshire, who 
would have done a great deal more to provide her 
with social gaiety if he had not been living, now. 


A COURT BALL 


11 


mostly in retirement with an invalid wife, had pro¬ 
cured those commands which had brought them up to 
London, and are not generally bestowed unasked on 
the belongings of a country squire, however impor¬ 
tant he may be in the midst of his own posses¬ 
sions. 

Lord Meadshire stayed with them for some little 
time and pointed out to her some of the notabilities 
and the less familiar royalties. Then Dick came up 
and took her away to dance again. After that she 
sat by her mother’s side until the end. She saw the 
boy with whom she had made friends eying her 
rather wistfully. He had danced a quadrille with a 
princess, and the experience seemed so to have shat¬ 
tered his nerve that he was not equal to making his 
way to her to ask her to bear him company again, and 
she could not very well beckon him, as she felt inclined 
to do. The ball became rather dull, although she 
looked a good deal at the King and Queen and 
thought how extraordinary it was that she should be 
in the same room with them. 

Before she had quite realised that it had begun, 
the ball was over. The band played “ God save the 
King ” again. Everybody stood up and the royal 
procession was formed and went away to supper. 
With the light of royalty eclipsed, her own supper 
seemed an ordinary affair. At country dances she 
had shirked it whenever she could, taking advantage 
of a clearer floor to dance with some willing partner 
right through a valse or a two-step from beginning 


12 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


to end. After supper she danced once or twice, but 
as she drove back to the very private hotel at about 
half-past one, she only felt as if she had not danced 
nearly enough, and as she undressed she hardly knew 
whether she had enjoyed herself or not. 


CHAPTER II 


IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 

On the night on which Cicely Clinton was enjoying 
herself at the Court Ball, the Punjavh homeward 
bound from Australia via Colombo and the Suez 
Canal was steaming through the Bay of Biscay, 
which, on this night of June had prepared a pleasant 
surprise for the Punjauh's numerous passengers by 
lying calm and still under a bright moon. 

Two men were leaning over the side of the upper 
deck, watching the phosphorescent gleam of the 
water as it slid past beneath them, and talking as 
intimate friends. They were Ronald Mackenzie, the 
explorer, returning home after his adventurous two 
years’ expedition into the wilds of Tibet, and Jim 
Graham, whose home was at Mountfield, three miles 
away from Kencote, where the Clintons lived. They 
were not intimate friends, in spite of appearances. 
They had joined the ship together at Colombo, and 
found themselves occupying the same cabin. But ac¬ 
quaintanceship ripens so fast on board ship that 
the most dissimilar characters may adhere to one 
another for as long as a voyage lasts, although they 
may never meet again afterwards, nor particularly 
wish to. 

Mackenzie was a tall, ruggedly fashioned man, 
13 


14 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


with greying hair and a keen, bold face. Jim 
Graham was more slightly built. He had an open, 
honest look; he was rather deliberate in speech, and 
apparently in thought, for in conversation he would 
often pause before speaking, and he sometimes ig¬ 
nored a question altogether, as if he had not heard 
it, or had not understood it. There were those who 
called him stupid; but it was usually said of him that 
he was slow and sure. He had a rather ugly face, 
but it was that pleasant ugliness which, with a well- 
knit athletic body, clear eyes and a tanned skin, is 
hardly distinguishable, in a man, from good looks. 

They were talking about London. “ I can smell 
it and see it,” said Mackenzie. “ I hope it will be 
raining when I get home. I like the wet pavements, 
and the lights, and the jostling crowds. Lord! 
it will be good to see it again. How I’ve pined for 
it, back there! But I’ll be out of it again in a month. 
It’s no place for a man like me, except to get back 
to every now and then.” 

“ That’s how most of us take it,” said Jim, “ unless 
we have to work there. I’m glad I haven’t to, though 
I enjoy it well enough for a week or two, occa¬ 
sionally.” 

“ Do you live in the country all the year round.?* ” 

“ Yes.” 

Mackenzie threw him a glance which seemed to 
take him in from top to toe. “ What do you do ? ” 
he asked. 

Jim Graham paused for a moment before replying. 


S 


IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 


15 


I have a good deal to do,” he said. “ I’ve got my 
place to look after.” 

“ That doesn’t take you all your time, does it? ” 

“ It takes a good deal of it. And I’m on the 
bench.” 

“ That means sending poor devils to prison for 
poaching your game, I suppose.” 

“ Not quite that,” said Jim, without a smile. 

“ I suppose what it all does mean is that you live 
in a big country house and shoot and hunt and fish 
to your heart’s content, with just enough work to 
keep you contented with yourself. By Jove, some 
men are lucky! Do you know what my life has 
been ? ” 

“ I know you have been through many adventures 
and done big things,” said Jim courteously. 

“ Well, I’m obliged to you for putting it like that. 
Seems to me I didn’t put my idea of your life quite 
so nicely, eh ? ” He stood up and stretched his tall 
figure, and laughed. “ I’m a rough diamond,” he 
said. “ I don’t mind saying so, because it’s plain 
enough for any one to see. I sometimes envy people 
like you their easy manners; but I’ve got to be con¬ 
tent with my own; and after all, they have served my 
turn well enough. Look at us two. I suppose I’m 
about ten years older than you, but I had made my 
name when I was your age. You were bom in a 
fine country house.” 

“ Not so very fine,” said Jim. 

“ Well, pretty fine compared to the house I was 


16 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


bom in, which was the workhouse. You were edu¬ 
cated at Eton and Christchurch, and all that sort of 
thing-” 

“ I don’t want to spoil any comparison you are 
going to make,” said Jim, “ but I was at Winchester 
and New College.” 

“ That will do,” said Mackenzie. “ I was dragged 
up at the workhouse school till I was twelve. Then 
I ran away and sold papers in the streets, and any¬ 
thing else that I could pick up a few coppers by— 
except steal. I never did that. I always made up 
my mind I’d be a big man some day, and—I’m glad 
I didn’t steal.” 

“ I didn’t either, you know,” said Jim, “ although 
I’m not a big man, and never shall be.” 

“ Ah, that’s where the likes of me scores. You’ve 
no call to ambition. You have everything you can 
want provided for you.” 

“ There have been one or two big men bom as I 
was,” said Jim. “ But please go on with your story. 
When did you go on your first journey.? ” 

“ When I was sixteen. I looked much older. I 
shipped before the mast and went out to Australia, 
and home round Cape Horn. By Jove, I shan’t 
forget that. The devil was in the wind. We were 
five months coming home, and nearly starved to 
death, and worked till we were as thin as hungry 
cats. Then I shipped with the Boyle-Geering ex¬ 
pedition—^you know—North Pole, and three years 
trying to get there. Then I tried a change of 



IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 


17 


climate and went to Central Africa with Freke. I 
was his servant, got his bath, shaved him, brushed 
his clothes—he was always a bit of a dandy, Freke, 
and lived like a gentleman, though I don’t believe he 
was any better than I was when he started; but he 
could fight too, and there wasn’t his equal with nig¬ 
gers. We had trouble that trip, and the men who 
went out with him were a rotten lot. They’d found 
the money, or he wouldn’t have taken them. He 
knew a man when he saw one. When we came home 
I was second in command. 

“ It was easy after that. I led that expedition 
through Uganda when I was only twenty-five; and 
the rest^—^well, the rest I dare say you know.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said Jim. “ You’ve done a 
lot.” 

“ Not so bad, eh, for a workhouse brat.? ” 

“ Not so bad for anybody.” 

‘‘ I’m up top now. I used to envy lots of people. 
Now most people envy me.” 

Jim was silent. 

Mackenzie turned to him. I suppose you’ve had 
a pretty easy time travelling,” he said. There was 
a suspicion of a sneer on his long thin lips. 

“ Pretty easy,” said Jim. 

“Ah! Your sort of travelling is rather different 
from mine. If you had been roughing it in Tibet 
for the last two years you would be pretty glad to 
be getting back.” 

“ I’m glad to be getting back as it is.” 


18 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Mackenzie turned and leaned over the rail again, 
“ Well, I don’t know that I don’t envy you a bit 
after all,” he said. “ I’ve got no friends in Eng¬ 
land. I’m not a man to make friends. The big-wigs 
will take me up this time. I know that from what 
I’ve seen. I shall be a lion. I suppose I shall be able 
to go anywhere I like. But there’s nowhere I want 
to go to particularly, when I’ve had enough of Lon¬ 
don. You’ve got your country home. Lord, how 
I’ve thought of the English country, in summer time! 
Thirsted for it. But it has to belong to you, in a 
way. I’ve a good mind to buy a little place—I shall 
be able to afford it when my book comes out. But I 
should want a wife to keep it warm for me. You’re 
not married, I suppose.” 

“ No.” 

“ Going to be ? ” 

Jim made no reply. 

Mackenzie laughed. “ Mustn’t ask questions, I 
suppose,” he said. “ I’m a rough diamond, Graham. 
Got no manners, you see. Never had any one to 
teach ’em to me. I apologise.” 

“ No need to,” said Jim. 

There was silence for a space. The great round 
moon shone down and silvered the long ripples on the 
water. 

“ I don’t mind answering your question,” said Jim, 
looking out over the sea. “ There are some country 
neighbours of mine. One of the sons is my chief pal. 
We were brought up together, more or less. He’s 


IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 


19 


going to marry my sister. And—well, I hope I’m 
going to marry his.” 

His face changed a little, but Mackenzie, looking 
straight before him did not notice it. “ Sounds a 
capital arrangement,” he said drily. 

Jim flushed, and drew himself up. “ Well, I think 
I’ll be turning in,” he said. 

Mackenzie faced him quickly. “ Tell me all about 
it,” he said. “ How old is she? You have known her 
all your life. When did you first find out you wanted 
to marry her? When are you going to be married? ” 

Jim looked at him squarely. “ You are taking 
liberties,” he said. 

Mackenzie laughed again—his harsh, unamused 
laugh. “ All right,” he said. “ One has to be as 
delicate as a fine lady talking to fellows like you. 
It’s not worth it. When you live like a savage 
half your life, you sort of hunger after hearing about 
things like that—people living in the country, falling 
in love and getting married, and going to church 
every Sunday—all the simple, homely things. A man 
without all the nonsense about good form and all that 
sort of thing—a man who’d done things—he would 
know why you asked him, and he would know he 
couldn’t find anybody better to tell his little happy 
secrets to.” 

“ Oh, well,” said Jim, slightly mollified. 

“ I dare say you’re right, though,” said Mackenzie. 
“ One doesn’t blab to every stranger. Even I don’t, 
and I’m a rough diamond, as I’ve told you.” 


20 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Yes, you’ve told me that.” 

“ Is the fellow who is going to marry your sister a 
country gentleman, too ? ” 

“ No. His father is. He’s a younger son. He’s 
a doctor.” 

‘‘ A doctor! Isn’t that a funny thing for a country 
gentleman’s son to be.^ ” 

“ I don’t know that it is. He’s a clever fellow. 
He went in for science at Oxford, and got keen.” 

“ That’s good hearing. I like to hear of men get¬ 
ting keen about a real job. You might tell me about 
him, if I’m not taking another liberty in asking.” 

“ Oh, look here, Mackenzie, I’m sorry I said that. 
I didn’t understand why you asked what you did.” 

“ I’ve told you. I like to hear about everything 
that goes on in the world. It isn’t curiosity, and 
yet in a way it is. I’m curious about everything 
that goes on—everywhere. It isn’t impertinent curi¬ 
osity, anyway.” 

“I see that. I’ll tell you about Walter Clinton. 
He’s a good chap. His father has a fine place next 
to mine. He’s a rich man. His family has been there 
since the beginning of all things. Walter is just my 
age. We’ve always been a lot together.” 

‘‘Is there a large family? What do his brothers 
do?” 

“ There’s Dick, the eldest son. He’s in the Guards. 
There’s Humphrey in the Foreign Office, and a 
younger son, a sailor. And—and there are three 
girls—two of them are children—twins.” 


IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 


21 


“ Well, now, aren’t I right in saying it’s odd for a 
son in a family like that to become a doctor? ” 

“ Oh, well, I suppose in a way you are, though I 
can’t see why he shouldn’t be. The fact is that they 
wanted to make a parson of him—^there’s a rather 
good family living. But he wasn’t taking any.” 

“ Ah! I thought I knew something about your 
country gentry. Well, I admire the doctor. Was 
there a row? ” 

“ His father was rather annoyed. Perhaps it’s not 
to be wondered at. His half-brother is Rector at 
Kencote now, and when he dies they’ll have to give 
the living to a stranger. Of course they would rather 
have one of the family.” 

“ It’s like a chapter in a book—one of the long, 
easy ones, all about country life and the squire and 
the parson. I love ’em. And the doctor is going 
to marry your sister. Can I give ’em a skin for a 
wedding present? ” 

‘‘ I’m sure they would be gratified. You’d better 
come down and make their acquaintance.” 

“ I’ll do that. I’d like to come and see you, 
Graham; and you mustn’t mind my roughness peep¬ 
ing out occasionally. I haven’t had many chances in 
life.” 

There was a pause, and then Jim said, ‘‘ Walter 
Clinton’s sister comes next to him in the family. 
She’s six or seven years younger. Of course, I’ve 
known her ever since she was a baby. When I 
came back from Oxford one summer vac., I found 


22 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


her almost grown up. She seemed quite different 
somehow. I was always over there all the summer, 
or she was with my sister. We fixed it up we would 
get married some day. They laughed at us, and 
said we had better wait a few years; but of course 
they were pleased, really, both my people and hers, 
though they thought it a bit premature; she was 
only seventeen. When I went back to Oxford and 
thought it over I said to myself it wasn’t quite fair 
to tie her down at that age. I would wait and see. 
So we fell back to what we had been before.” 

He stopped suddenly. “ Is that all ? ” asked Mac¬ 
kenzie in some surprise. 

“ It’s all at present.” 

There was a long pause. It’s disappointing, 
somehow,” said Mackenzie. “ I suppose I mustn’t ask 
questions, but there are a lot I’d like to ask.” 

‘‘ Oh, ask away. When the ice is once broken one 
can talk. It does one good to talk sometimes.” 

“ Women talk to each other about their love af¬ 
fairs. Men don’t—not the real ones—except on 
occasions.” 

“ Well, we’ll let this be an occasion, as you have 
started the subject.” He laughed lightly. “ You’ve 
got a sort of power, Mackenzie. If any one had told 
me yesterday that I should be talking to you to¬ 
night about a thing I haven’t mentioned to a soul 
for five years—except once or twice to Walter Clin¬ 
ton—I should have stared at them. I’m not generally 
supposed to be communicative.” 


IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 2S 

“ It’s impersonal,” said Mackenzie, “ like telling 
things to a priest. I’m not in the same world as 
you. Five years, is it? Well, now, what on earth 
have you been doing ever since She’s not too young 
to marry now.” 

“ No. I was at Oxford a year after what I told 
you of. Then I went for a year to learn estate 
management on my uncle’s property. When I came 
home I thought I would fix it up with my father— 
he was alive then. He said, wait a year longer. 
He was beginning to get ill, and I suppose he didn’t 
want to face the worry of making arrangements till 
}ie got better. But he never got better, and within 
a year he died.” 

“ And then you were your own master. That’s 
two years ago, isn’t it.'’ And here you are coming 
back from a year’s trip round the world. You seem 
to be pretty slow about things.” 

“ One doesn’t become one’s own master immedi¬ 
ately one succeeds to the ownership of land. These 
death duties have altered all that. I shan’t be free 
for another year. Then I hope you will come to my 
wedding, Mackenzie.” 

“ Thanks. Didn’t the young lady object to keep¬ 
ing it all hanging on for so long.^ ” 

Jim did not reply for a moment. Then he said 
a little stiffly, “ I wrote to her from Oxford when I 
had thought things over. I thought it wasn’t fair to 
tie her up before I was ready to marry, and she so 
young.” 


24 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ And that means that you have never allowed 
yourself to make love to her since.” 

“ Yes, it means that.” 

‘‘ And yet you have been in love with her all the 
time.?^ ” 

« Yes.” 

“ Well, it shows a greater amount of self-control 
than most people possess—certainly a good deal 
more than I possess. I suppose you are sure of her.” 

Jim did not reply to this, but he said presently, 
“ If it wasn’t for the death duties I should have 
hoped to be married before this.” 

‘‘ I’ll tell you what I don’t understand,” said 
Mackenzie. “ I suppose you live in much the same 
way as your father did before you.” 

“ Yes. My mother lives with me, and my sister.” 

‘‘ Well, surely you could get married if you wanted 
to. You’ve got your house and everything, even 
if there isn’t quite so much money to spend for a 
bit. And as for ready money—it doesn’t cost noth¬ 
ing to travel for a year as you’re doing.” 

“ Oh, an uncle of mine paid for that,” said Jim. 

I got seedy after my father’s death. There was a 
lot of worry, and—and I was fond of the old man. 
The doctors told me to go off. I’m all right now. 
As for the rest—well, there are such things as 
jointures and dowries. No, I couldn’t marry, giving 
my wife and my mother and sister everything they 
ought to have, before another year. Even then it 
will be a close thing; I shall have to be careful.” 


IN THE BAY OF BISCAY 


25 


They fell silent. The dark mass of the ship’s 
hull beneath them slipped on through the water, 
drawing ever nearer towards home. The moon 
climbed still higher into the sky. ‘‘ Well, we’ve had. 
an interesting talk,” said Mackenzie, drawing himself 
up. “ What you have told me is all so entirely dif¬ 
ferent from anything that would ever happen in my 
life. If I wanted to marry a girl I should marry her, 
and let the money go hang. She’d have to share 
and share. But I dare say when I want a thing 
I want it for the moment a good deal more than you 
do; and, generally, I see that I get it. Now I think 
I shall turn in. Give me ten minutes.” 

He went down to the cabin they both occupied. 
As he undressed he said to himself, “ Rather a 
triumph, drawing a story like that from a fellow 
like that. And Lord, what a story! He deserves to 
lose her. I should like to hear her side of it.” 

Jim Graham smoked another cigarette, walking 
round the deck. He felt vaguely dissatisfied with 
himself for having made a confidant of Mackenzie, 
and at the same time relieved at having given vent 
to what he had shut up for so long in the secret 
recesses of his mind. 

A day or two later the two men parted at Tilbury. 
They had not again mentioned the subject of their 
long conversation in the Bay of Biscay. 


CHAPTER III 


THE CLINTONS OF KENCOTE 

Cicely was returning home with her father and 
mother after her short taste of the season’s gaieties. 
It was pleasant to lean back in a comer of the rail¬ 
way carriage and look at the rich Meadshire country, 
so familiar to her, running past the window. She had 
not wanted to go home particularly, but she was 
rather glad to be going home all the same. 

The country in South Meadshire is worth looking 
at. There are deep-grassed water-meadows, kept 
green by winding rivers; woods of beech and oak; 
stretches of gorse and bracken; no hills to speak of, 
but gentle rises, crowned sometimes by an old church, 
or a pleasant-looking house, neither very old nor 
very new, very large nor very small. The big houses, 
and there are a good many of them, lie for the most 
part in what may be called by courtesy the valleys. 
You catch a glimpse of them sometimes at a little 
distance from the line, which seems to have shown 
some ingenuity in avoidtng them, standing in wide, 
well-timbered parks, or peeping from amongst thicker 
trees, with their court of farm and church and clus¬ 
tered village, in dignified seclusion. For the rest, 
there are picturesque hamlets; cottages with bright 
26 


THE CLINTONS OF KENCOTE 27 


gardens; children, and fluttering clothes-lines; pigs 
and donkeys and geese on the cropped commons; a 
network of roads and country lanes; and everywhere 
a look of smiling and contented well-being, which 
many an English county of higher reputation for 
picturesque scenery might envy. 

The inhabitants of South Meadshire will tell you 
that it is one of the best counties for all-round 
sport. Game is preserved, but not over-preseiwed, 
and the mixture of pasture and arable land and 
frequent covert, while it does not tempt the fox¬ 
hunting Londoner, breeds stout foxes for the pleas¬ 
ure of those who know every inch of it; and there 
is enough grass, enough water, and stiff enough fences 
to try the skill of the boldest, and to provide occa¬ 
sionally such a run as from its comparative rarity 
accords a gratification unknown to the frequenter of 
the shires. Big fish are sometimes caught in the 
clear streams of South Meadshire, and they are 
caught by the people who own them, or by their 
friends. For in this quiet comer of England the 
life of the hall and the village still goes on unchanged. 
At the meets—on lawn, at cross-road, or by covert- 
side—everybody knows everybody else, at least by 
sight; neighbours shoot with one another and not 
with strangers; and the small fry of the countryside 
get their share of whatever fun is going on. 

In the middle of this pleasant land lies the manor 
of Kencote, and a good many fat acres around it, 
which have come to the Clintons from time to time, 


28 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


either by lucky marriages or careful purchase, dur¬ 
ing the close upon six hundred years they have been 
settled there. For they are an old family and in 
their way an important one, although their actual 
achievements through all the centuries in which they 
have enjoyed wealth and local consideration fill but 
a small page in their family history. 

The Squire had, in the strong room of the Bath¬ 
gate and Medchester Bank, in deed-boxes at his 
lawyers, and in drawers and chests and cupboards 
in his house, papers worthy of the attention of the 
antiquary. From time to time they did engage the 
antiquary’s attention, and, scattered about in bound 
volumes of antiquarian and genealogical magazines, 
in the proceedings of learned societies, and in county 
histories, you may find the fruits of much careful and 
rewarding research through these various documents. 
When the Squire was approached by some one who 
wished to write a paper or read a paper, or compile 
a genealogy, or carry out any project for the pur¬ 
poses of which it was necessary to gain access to the 
Clinton archives, he would express his annoyance to 
his family. He would say that he wished these people 
would let him alone. The fact was that there were 
so few really old families left in England, that people 
like himself who had lived quietly on their property 
for eight or nine hundred years, or whatever it might 
be, had to bear all the brunt of these investigations, 
and it was really becoming an infernal nuisance. 
But he would always invite the antiquary to Kencote, 


THE CLINTONS OF KENCOTE 29 


give him a bottle of fine claret and his share of a 
bottle of fine port, and every facility for the pursuit 
of his inquiries. 

A History of the Ancient and Knightly Family 
of Clinton of Kencote in the County of Meadshirey 
was compiled about a hundred years ago by the 
Reverend John Clinton Smith, M.A., Rector of Ken¬ 
cote, and published by Messrs. Dow and Runagate 
of Paternoster Row. It is not very accurate, but 
any one interested in such matters can, with due 
precaution taken, gain from it valuable information 
concerning the twenty-two generations of Clintons 
who have lived and ruled at Kencote since Sir Giles 
de Clinton acquired the manor in the reign of 
Edward I. 

The learned Rector devoted a considerable part 
of his folio volume to tracing a connection between 
the Clintons of Kencote and other families of Clin¬ 
tons who have mounted higher in the world. It is 
the opinion of later genealogists that he might have 
employed his energies to better purpose, but, in any 
case, the family needs no further shelter than is sup¬ 
plied by its own well-rooted family tree. You will 
find too, in his book, the result of his investigations 
into his own pedigree, in which the weakest links 
have to bear the greatest strain, as is often the case 
with pedigrees. 

It remains only to be said that the Squire, Edward 
Clinton, had succeeded his grandfather. Colonel 
Thomas, of whom you may read in sporting maga- 


30 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


zines and memoirs, at the age of eighteen, and had 
always been a rich man, and an honest one. 

Kencote lies about six miles to the south-west 
of the old town of Bathgate. The whole parish, 
and it is an exceptionally large one, belongs to the 
Squire, with a good deal more land besides in neigh¬ 
bouring parishes. Kencote House is a big, rather 
ugly structure, and was built early in the eighteenth 
century after the disastrous fire which destroyed the 
beautiful old Tudor hall and nearly all its hoarded 
treasures. This catastrophe is worth a brief notice, 
for nowadays an untitled family often enjoys some 
consideration from the possession of an old and 
beautiful house, and the Clintons of Kencote would 
be better known to the world at large if they did not 
live in a comparatively new one. 

It happened at the dead of a winter night. 
Young William Clinton had brought home his bride, 
Lady Anne, only daughter and heiress of the Earl 
of Beechmont, that afternoon, and there had been 
torches and bonfires and a rousing welcome. No¬ 
body knew exactly how it happened, but they awoke 
to find the house in flames, and most of the household 
too overcome by the results of their merry-making to 
be of any use in saving it. The house itself was burnt 
to a shell, but it was long enough in the burning to 
have enabled its more valuable contents to have been 
saved, if the work had been set about with some 
method. The young squire, in night-cap, shirt, and 
breeches, whether mindful of his pedigree at that 


THE CLINTONS OF KENCOTE SI 


time of excitement, or led by the fantastic spirit that 
moves men in such crises, threw as much of the con¬ 
tents of his muniment room out of the window as he 
had time for, and the antiquarians bless him to this 
day. Then he went off to the stables, and helped 
to get out his horses. My Lady Anne, who was only 
sixteen, saved her jewels and one or two of her more 
elaborate gowns, and then sat down by the sun-dial 
and cried. The servants worked furiously as long as 
the devouring flames allowed them, but when there 
was nothing left of Kencote Hall but smouldering, 
unsafe walls, under a black, winter sky, and the piled- 
up heap of things that had been got out into the 
garden came to be examined, it was found to be made 
up chiefly of the lighter and less valuable pieces of 
furniture, a few pictures and hangings, many tumbled 
folios from the library, kitchen and house utensils, 
and just a few pieces of plate and other valuables 
to salt the whole worthless mass. 

So perished in a night the chief pride of the Clin¬ 
tons of Kencote, and the noble house, with its great 
raftered hall, its carved and panelled chambers, its 
spoil of tapestries and furniture, carpets, china, sil¬ 
ver, pictures, books, all the possessions that had been 
gathered from many lands through many years, was 
only a memory that must fade more and more rapidly 
as time went on. 

The young couple went back to her ladyship’s 
father, not many miles away, and Kencote was left 
in its ruins for ten years or so. Then my Lord 


S2 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Beechmont died, sadly impoverished by unfortunate 
dealings with the stock of the South Sea Company, 
the house and land that remained to him were sold, 
and Kencote was rebuilt with the proceeds, much as 
it stands to-day, except that Merchant Jack, the 
father of Colonel Thomas, bitten with the ideas of his 
time, covered the mellow red brick with a coating of 
stucco and was responsible for the Corinthian porch, 
and the ornamental parapet surmounted by Grecian 
urns. 

Merchant Jack had been a younger son and had 
made his fortune in the city. He was modern in his 
ideas, and a rich man, and wanted a house as good 
as his neighbours. Georgian brick, and tall, narrow, 
small-paned windows had gone out of fashion. So 
had the old formal gardens. Those at Kencote had 
survived the destruction of the house, but they did not 
survive the devastating zeal of Merchant Jack. 
They were swept away by a pupil of Capability 
Brown’s, who allowed the old walls of the kitchen 
garden to stand because they were useful for growing 
fruit, but destroyed walls and terraces and old yew 
hedges everywhere else, brought the well-treed park 
into relation, as he thought, with the garden, by 
means of sunk fences, planted shrubberies, laid down 
vast lawns, and retired very well pleased with him¬ 
self at having done away with one more old-fashioned, 
out-of-date garden, and substituted for it a few more 
acres of artificial ugliness. 

He did just one thing that turned out well; he 


THE CLINTONS OF KENCOTE 33 


made a large lake in a hollow of the park and ringed 
it with rhododendrons, which have since grown to 
enormous size. At the end of it he caused to be 
built a stucco temple overhung with weeping ashes, 
designed “ to invite Melancholy.” There is no show¬ 
ing that Merchant Jack had any desire to respond 
to such an invitation, but it was the fashion of 
the time, and no doubt he was pleased with the 
idea. 

Merchant Jack also refurnished the house when 
his architect had had his way with it and the work¬ 
men had departed. A few good pieces he kept, but 
most of the furniture, which had been brought into 
the house when it was rebuilt after the fire, dis¬ 
appeared, to make way for heavy mahogany and rose¬ 
wood. Some of it went down to the dower house, a 
little Jacobean hall in a dark corner of the park, 
and there is reason to fear that the rest was sold for 
what it would fetch. 

In all these lamentable activities, good, rich, up- 
to-date Merchant Jack was only improving his prop¬ 
erty according to the ideas of his time, and had no 
more idea of committing artistic improprieties than 
those people nowadays who buy a dresser from a 
farm-house kitchen to put in their drawing-room, 
and plaster the adjacent walls with soup plates. His 
memorial tablet in Kencote church speaks well of him 
and his memory must be respected. 

But we have left Edward Clinton with his wife 
and daughter sitting for so long in the train between 


34 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Ganton and Kencote, that we must now return to 
them without any further delay. 

Having got into the railway carriage at the London 
terminus as a private gentleman, of no more account 
than any other first-class passenger, and weighed 
only by his potential willingness to pay handsomely 
for attentions received, as the successive stages of 
his journey were accomplished, he seemed to develop 
in importance. At Ganton, where a change had to 
be made, although it was twenty miles and more 
from his own parcel of earth, peaked caps were 
touched to him, and the station-master himself, 
braided coat and all, opened his carriage door, ex¬ 
pressing, as he did so, a hope that the present fair 
weather would continue. One might almost, until 
one had thought it over, have imagined him to be 
appealing to the Squire as one who might take a 
hand in its continuance if he were so minded, at any 
rate in the neighbourhood of Kencote. 

At Kencote itself, so busy was the entire station 
staff in helping him and his belongings out of the 
train, that the signal for starting was delayed a full 
minute, and then given almost as an after-thought, 
as if it were a thing of small importance. Heads 
were poked out of carriage windows, and an imperti¬ 
nent stranger, marking the delay and its cause, asked 
the station-master, as he was carried past him, where 
was the red carpet. The answer might have been 
that it was duly spread in the thoughts of all who 
conducted the Squire from the train to his carriage. 


THE CLINTONS OF KENCOTE 35 


and was as well brushed as if it had been laid on the 
platform. 

The Squire had a loud and affable word for 
station-master and porters alike, and another for the 
groom who stood at the heads of the two fine greys 
harnessed to his phaeton. He walked out into the 
road and looked them over, remarking that they 
were the handsomest pair he had seen since he had 
left home. Then he took the reins and swung him¬ 
self up on to his seat, actively, for a man of his age 
and weight. Mrs. Clinton climbed up more slowly 
to her place by his side. Cicely sat behind, and with 
a jingle and clatter the equipage rolled down the road, 
while the groom touched his hat and went back to the 
station omnibus in which Mrs. Clinton’s maid was es¬ 
tablishing herself in the midst of a collection of 
wraps and little bags. For, unless it was unavoidable, 
no servant of the Clintons sat on the same seat of a 
carriage as a member of the family. 

It was in the drowsiest time in the afternoon. The 
sun shone on the hay-fields, from which the sound 
of sharpened scythes and the voices of the hay¬ 
makers came most musically. Great trees bordered 
the half-mile of road from the station to the village, 
and gave a grateful shade. The gardens of the 
cottages were bright with June flowers, and the 
broad village street, lined with low, irregular build- 
ings, picturesque, but not at all from neglected age, 
seemed to be dozing in the still, hot air. A curtsy 
at the lodge gates, a turn of the Squire’s wrist, and 


36 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


they were bowling along the well kept road through 
the park. 

A minute more, and they had clattered on to the 
stones under the big porch. 

“ Well, here we are again, Probin,” said the Squire 
to his head coachman, who himself took the reins 
from his hands. “ And here, please God, we’ll stay 
for the present.” 


CHAPTER IV 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 

The family tradition of the Clintons, whereby the 
interests and occupations of the women were strictly 
subordinated to those of the men, had not yet availed 
to damp the spirits or curb the activities of Joan 
and Nancy, of whom Mrs. Clinton had made a simul¬ 
taneous and somewhat belated present to the Squire 
thirteen years before. Frank, the sailor, the young¬ 
est son, had been seven at the time the twins were 
born, and Dick a young man at Cambridge. Joan 
and Nancy were still the pets of the household, strong 
and healthy pets, and unruly within the limits per¬ 
mitted them. Released from their schoolroom, they 
now came rushing into the hall, and threw themselves 
on to their parents and their sister with loud cries 
of welcome. 

The Squire kissed them in turn—they approached 
him first as in duty bound. It had taken him three 
or four years to get used to their presence, and 
during that time he had treated them as the sort 
of unaccountable plaything a woman brings into a 
house and a male indulgently winks his eye at, a 
thing beneath his own notice, like a new gown or 
a new poodle, or a new curate, but one in which 
she must be permitted, in the foolish weakness of 
37 


38 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


her sex, to interest herself. Then he had gradually 
begun to “ take notice ” of them, to laugh at their 
childish antics and speeches, to quote them—^he had 
actually done this in the hunting-field—and finally 
to like to have them pottering about with him when 
duties of investigation took him no further than the 
stables or the buildings of the home farm. He had 
always kept them in order while they were with him; 
he had never lost sight of the fact that they were, 
after all, feminine; and he had never allowed them 
to interfere with his more serious pursuits. But he 
had fully accepted them as agreeable playthings for 
his own lighter hours of leisure, just as he might 
have taken to the poodle or the curate, and so treated 
them still, although their healthy figures were be¬ 
ginning to fill out, and if they had been born Clintons 
of a generation or two before they would have been 
considered to be approaching womanhood. 

He now greeted them with hearty affection, and 
told them that if they were good girls they might 
come and look at the pheasants with him when he 
had read his letters and they had had their tea, and 
then took himself off to his library. 

Mrs. Clinton’s greeting was less hearty, but not 
less affectionate. She lingered just that second 
longer over each of them which gives an embrace 
a meaning beyond mere convention, but she only 
said, “ I must go and see Miss Bird. I suppose she 
is in the schoolroom.” She gathered up her skirts 
and went upstairs, but when the twins had given 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD S9 


Cicely a boisterous hug, they went back to their 
mother, and walked on either side of her. She was 
still the chief personage in their little world, al¬ 
though their father and even their brothers were of 
so much more importance in the general scheme of 
things. And not even in the presence of their father 
and brothers did they “ behave themselves ” as they 
did with their mother. 

The schoolroom was at the end of a long corridor, 
down two steps and round a corner. It was a large 
room, looking on to the park from two windows and 
on to the stable-yard from a third. There were 
shelves containing the twins’ schoolbooks and story¬ 
books, a terrestrial and a celestial globe, purchased 
many years ago for the instruction of their great- 
aunts, and besides other paraphernalia of learning, 
signs of more congenial occupations, such as bird¬ 
cages and a small aquarium, boxes of games, a big 
doll’s house still in tenantable repair though seldom 
occupied, implements and materials for wood-carving, 
and in a corner of the room a toy fort and a sur¬ 
prising variety of lead soldiers on foot or on horse¬ 
back. Such things as these might undergo variation 
from time to time. The doll’s house might disap¬ 
pear any day, as the rocking-horse had disappeared, 
for instance, a year before. But the furniture and 
other contents of the room were more stable. It was 
impossible to think of their being changed; they were 
so much a part of it. The Squire never visited the 
room, but if he had done so he would have recognised 


40 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


it as the same room in which he had been taught his 
own letters, with difficulty, fifty years before, and if 
any unauthorised changes had been made, he would 
certainly have expressed surprise and displeasure, as 
he had done when Walter had carried off to Oxford 
the old print of Colonel Thomas on his black horse, 
Satan, with a view of Kencote House, on a slight 
eminence imagined by the artist, in the background. 
Walter had had to send the picture back, and it 
was hanging in its proper place now, and not likely 
to be removed again. 

Miss Bird, commonly known as “ the old starling,” 
to whom Mrs. Clinton had come to pay an immedi¬ 
ate visit upon entering the house, as in duty bound, 
was putting things away. She was accustomed to 
say that she spent her life in putting things away 
after the twins had done with them, and that they 
were more trouble to her than all the rest of the 
family had been. For Miss Bird had lived in the 
house for nearly thirty years, and had acted as 
educational starter to the whole race of young 
Clintons, to Dick, Humphrey, Walter, Cicely, and 
Frank, and had taken a new lease of life when the 
twins had appeared on the scene with the expecta¬ 
tion of a prolonged period of service. She was a 
thin, voluble lady, as old as the Squire, to whom 
she looked up as a god amongst mankind; her 
educational methods were of an older generation and 
included the use of the globes and the blackboard, 
but she was most conscientious in her duties, her 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 41 


religious principles were unexceptionable, and she 
filled a niche at Kencote which would have seemed 
empty without her. 

“ O Mrs. Clinton I am so glad to see you back,’^ 
she said, almost ecstatically, “ and you too Cicely 
dear—oh my a new hat and such a pretty one! You 
look quite the town lady, upon my word and how 
did you enjoy the ball? you must tell me all about 
it every word now Joan and Nancy I will not put 
away your things for you once more and that I de¬ 
clare and you hear me say it you are the most shock¬ 
ingly untidy children and if I have told you that once 
I have told you a hundred times O Mrs. Clinton a 
new bonnet too and I declare it makes you look five 
years younger at least.” 

Mrs. Clinton took this compliment equably, and 
asked if the twins had been good girls. 

“ Well, good! ” echoed the old starling, “ they 
know best whether they have been good, of their 
lessons I say nothing and marks will show, but to 
get up as you might say in the dead of the night 
and let themselves down from a window with sheets 
twisted into a rope and not fit to be seen since, all 
creased, most dangerous, besides the impropriety for 
great girls of thirteen if any one had been passing 
as I have told them and should be obliged to report 
this behaviour to you Mrs. Clinton on the first op¬ 
portunity.” 

Joan and Nancy both glanced at their mother 
tentatively. “We were only playing Jacobites and 


42 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Roundheads,” said Joan. “ It makes it more 
real.” 

“ And it wasn’t in the middle of the night,” added 
Nancy. “ It was four o’clock, and quite light.” 

“ Why, you might have killed yourselves! ” ex¬ 
claimed Cicely. 

“ Exactly what I said the very words,” corrobor¬ 
ated the old starling. 

“ We tied the sheets very tight,” said Joan. 

“ And tested them thoroughly,” added Nancy. 

“ And we won’t do it again, mother,” said Joan 
coaxingly. 

“ Really, we won’t,” said Nancy impressively. 

‘‘ But what else will you do? ” asked Mrs. Clinton. 
“ You are getting too big for these pranks. If your 
father were to hear of it, I am sure I don’t know 
what he would say.” 

She knew pretty well that he would have laughed 
boisterously, and told her that he didn’t want the 
children molly-coddled. Time enough for that by 
and by when they grew up. And the twins probably 
knew this too, and were not unduly alarmed at the 
implied threat. But there was a quality in their 
mother’s displeasure, rare as it was, which made 
them apprehensive when one of their periodical 
outbursts had come to light. They were not old 
enough to perceive that it was not aroused by such 
feats as the one under discussion, which showed no 
moral delinquency, but only a certain danger to life 
and limb, now past. But their experience did tell 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 43 


them that misbehaviour which caused her displeasure 
was not thus referred to their father, and with many 
embraces and promises of amendment they procured 
future oblivion of their escapade. 

“ Well, I have done my duty,” said the old starling, 
“ and very unpleasant it was to have to welcome 
you home with such a story, Mrs. Clinton, and now 
it is all over and done with I will say and am glad 
to say that it is the only blot. And that is what I 
said to both Joan and Nancy that it was such a pity 
to have spoilt everything at the last moment, for 
otherwise two better behaved children it would have 
been impossible to find anywhere.” 

At which Joan and Nancy both kissed the old 
starling warmly, and she strained them to her flat 
but tender bosom and called them her precious 
pets. 

They went with Cicely into her bedroom while she 
‘‘ took off her things.” They betrayed an immense 
curiosity for every detail of her recent experiences, 
particularly that crowning one of the Court Ball. 
She was exalted in their eyes; she had long been 
grown up, but now she seemed more grown up than 
ever, a whole cycle in advance of their active, sexless 
juvenility. 

“ I don’t know,” said Joan doubtfully, fingering 
the new hat which Cicely had taken off, “ but I 
almost think it must be rather fun to wear pretty 
things sometimes.” 

But Nancy, the younger by some minutes, re- 


44 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


buked that unwholesome weakness. “ What rot, 
Joan,” she said indignantly. “ Sis, we have made 
up our minds to ask mother if we may wear serge 
knickerbockers. Then we shall be able to do what 
we like.” 

When this sartorial revolution had been dis¬ 
cussed, Cicely asked, “ Has Muriel oeen over while 
I have been away ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Joan. “ Walter was at Mountfield 
on Sunday, and they came over in the afternoon. 
They prowled about together. Of course they didn’t 
want us.” 

“ But they had us all the same,” said Nancy, with 
a grin. ‘‘ We stalked them. They kissed in the 
Temple, and again in the peach-house.” 

“ But there were lucid intervals,” said Joan. 
“ They have made up their minds about something 
or other; we couldn’t quite hear what it was. They 
were in the kitchen garden, and we were on the other 
side of the wall.” 

“You weren’t listening, darling?” hazarded 
Cicely. 

“ Oh, rather not! We wouldn’t do such a thing. 
But Nancy and I like to pace up and down the yew 
walk in contemplation, and of course if they liked 
to pace up and down by the asparagus beds at the 
same time, we couldn’t help hearing the murmur of 
their voices.” 

“ It is something very serious,” said Nancy. 
“ Walter is going to tackle Edward about it at once. 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 45 


And Muriel is quite at one with him in the matter. 
She said so.” 

“ How they do go on together, those two! ” said 
Joan. “ You would think they had neve met in 
their lives until they got engaged six months ago. 
When they came out of the peach-house Nancy said, 
‘ And this is love! ’ Then she ran away.” 

“ Only because Walter ran after me,” said Nancy. 

“And Muriel put her arm round my neck,” con¬ 
tinued Joan, “ and said, ‘ O Joan, darling! I am 
so happy that I don’t care who sees me.’ Positively 
nauseating, I call it. You and Jim don’t behave like 
that. Sis.” 

“ I should think not,” said Cicely primly. 

“ Well, you’re engaged—or as good as,” said 
Nancy. “ But I do rather wonder what Walter is 
going to tackle Edward about. It can’t be to 
hurry on the wedding, for it’s only a month off 
now.” 

“We shall know pretty soon,” said Joan. “Fa¬ 
ther doesn’t keep things to himself.” 

“ No, I expect Edward will make a deuce of a 
row,” said Nancy. 

“Nancy!” said Cicely sharply, “you are not to 
talk like that.” 

“ Darling! ” said Nancy in a voice of grieved ex¬ 
postulation. “ It is what Walter said to Muriel. I 
thought there couldn't be any harm in it.” 

The twins—they were called “ the twankies ” by 
their brothers—^went off after tea in the schoolroom 


46 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


to see the young pheasants with their father. They 
were lively and talkative, and the Squire laughed at 
them several times, as good-humoured men do laugh 
at the prattle of innocent childhood. Arrived at the 
pens he entered into a long and earnest conversation 
with his head keeper, and the twins knew better than 
to interrupt him with artless prattle at such a time 
as that. But going home again through the dewy 
park, he unbent once more and egged Nancy on to 
imitate the old starling, at which he roared melodi¬ 
ously. He was a happy man that evening. He had 
come back to his kingdom, to the serious business of 
life, which had a good deal to do with keepers and 
broods of pheasants, and to his simple, domestic 
recreations, much enhanced by the playful ways of 
his ‘‘ pair of kittens.” 

The mellow light of the summer evening lay over 
the park, upon the thick grass of which the shadows 
of the trees were lengthening. Sheep were feeding 
on it, and it was flat round the house and rather 
uninteresting. But it was the Squire’s own; he 
had known every large tree since the earliest days 
of his childhood, and the others he had planted, 
seeing some of them grow to a respectable height 
and girth. He would have been quite incapable of 
criticising it from the point of view of beauty. The 
irregular roofs of the stables and other buildings, 
the innumerable chimneys of the big house beyond 
them, seen through a gap in the trees which hemmed 
it in for the most part on three sides, were also his 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 47 


own, and objects so familiar that he saw them with 
eyes different from any others that could have been 
turned upon them. The sight of them gave him 
a sensation of pleasure quite unrelated to their 
aesthetic or even their actual value. They meant 
home to him, and everything that he loved in the 
world, or out of it. The pleasure was always there 
subconsciously—not so much a pleasure as an atti¬ 
tude of mind—but this evening it warmed into some¬ 
thing concrete. “ There’s plenty of little dicky¬ 
birds haven’t got such a nest as my two,” he said to 
the twins, who failed to see that this speech, which 
they wriggled over, but privately thought fatuous, 
had the elements of both poetry and religion. 

In the meantime Cicely had made her way over 
the park in another direction to visit her aunts in 
the dower-house, for she knew they would be itching 
for an account of her adventures, and she had not 
had time to write to them from London. 

Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura were the only sur¬ 
viving representatives of the six spinster daughters 
of Colonel Thomas Clinton, the Squire’s grand¬ 
father. One after the other Aunt Mary, Aunt 
Elizabeth, Aunt Anna and Aunt Caroline had been 
carried out of the dark house in which they had 
ended their blameless days to a still darker and very 
narrow house within the precincts of Kencote 
church, and the eldest sister, now an amazingly aged 
woman, but still in the possession of all her faculties, 
and the youngest, who although many years her 


48 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


junior, was well over seventy, were all that were left 
of the bevy of spinster ladies. 

On their father’s death, now nearly forty years 
ago, they had removed in a body from the big house 
in which they had lived in a state of subdued self¬ 
repression to the small one in which, for the first 
time, they were to taste independence. For their 
father had been a terrible martinet where women 
were concerned, and would as readily have ordered 
Aunt Ellen to bed, at the age of fifty, if he had been 
displeased with her, as if she had been a child of ten. 
And if he had ordered her she would have gone. 

Some of the rooms in the dower-house had been 
occupied by the agent to the Kencote estate who at 
that time was a bachelor, and the rest had been shut 
up. The six sisters spent the happiest hours they 
had hitherto known in the arrangement of their 
future lives and of the beautiful old furniture with 
which the house was stocked. The lives were to be 
active, regular, and charitable. Colonel Thomas, 
who had allowed them each twenty pounds a year 
for dress allowance and pocket-money during his 
lifetime, had astonished everybody by leaving them 
six thousand pounds apiece in his will, which had 
been made afresh a year before his death. He had 
just then inherited the large fortune of his younger 
brother, who had succeeded to the paternal business 
in Cheapside, lived and died a bachelorj and saved 
a great deal of money every year. By his previous 
will they would have had a hundred a year each from 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 49 


the estate, and the use of the dower-house. But even 
that would have seemed wealth to these simple ladies 
as long as they remained together, and all of them 
alive. For Colonel Thomas had forgotten, in that 
first will, to make provision for the probability of 
one of them outliving the rest and being reduced to 
a solitary existence on a hundred pounds a year. 
However, with fifteen hundred a year or so between 
them, and no rent to pay, they were exceedingly well 
off, kept their modest carriage, employed two men 
in their garden, and found such pleasures in dividing 
their surplus wealth amongst innumerable and de¬ 
serving charities that the arrival by post of a nur¬ 
seryman’s catalogue excited them no more than that 
of an appeal to subscribe to a new mission. 

The beautiful old furniture, huddled in the 
disused rooms and in the great range of attics that 
ran under the high-pitched roof, gave them immense 
happiness in the arrangement. They were not in 
the least alive to its value at that time, though they 
had become so in some degree since, but kept rather 
quiet about it for fear that their nephew might wish 
to carry some of it off to the great house. They 
thought it very old-fashioned and rather absurd, and 
they also held this view of the beautifully carved 
and panelled rooms of their old house, which were 
certainly too dark for perfect comfort. But they 
disposed everything to the best advantage, and pro¬ 
duced without knowing it an effect which no diligent 
collector could have equalled, and which became 


50 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


still more delightful and satisfying as the years 
went on. 

Cicely walked across the level park and went 
through a deep wood, entering by an iron gate the 
garden of the dower-house, which seemed to have 
been built in a clearing, although it was older than 
the oldest of the trees that hemmed it round. On 
this hot summer afternoon it stood shaded and cool, 
and the very fragrance of its old-fashioned garden 
seeming to be confined and concentrated by the 
heavy foliage. There was not a leaf too many. But 
in the autumn it was damp and close and in the 
winter very dark. A narrow drive of about a hun¬ 
dred yards led straight from the main road to the 
porch and showed a blue telescopic glimpse of dis¬ 
tant country. If all the trees had been cut down in 
front to the width of the house it would have stood 
out as a thing of beauty against its green back¬ 
ground, air and light would have been let into the 
best rooms and the pleasant view of hill and vale 
opened up to them. But the Squire, tentatively ap¬ 
proached years before by his affectionate and sub¬ 
missive aunts, had decisively refused to cut down 
any trees at all, and four out of the six of them 
had taken their last look of this world out of one 
or other of those small-paned windows and seen only 
a great bank of laurels—even those they were not 
allowed to cut down—across a narrow space of 
gravel, and the branches of oaks not quite ripe for 
felling, above them. 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 51 


Cicely went through a garden door opening on to 
a stone-floored passage which ran right through the 
house, and opened the door of her aunts’ parlour. 
They were sitting on either side of the fireless grate 
with their tea-table not yet cleared between them. 
Aunt Ellen, ninety-three years of age, with a lace 
cap on her head and a white silk shawl over her 
shoulders, was sitting upright in her low chair, 
knitting. She wore no glasses, and her old hands, 
meagre, almost transparent, with large knuckles, 
and skin that looked as if it had been polished, 
fumbled a little with her needles and the thick wool. 
Her eyesight was failing, though in the pride of her 
great age she would not acknowledge it; but her 
hearing was almost perfect. Aunt Laura, who was 
seventy-five, looked, except for her hair, which 
was not quite white, the older of the two. She was 
bent and frail, and she had taken to spectacles some 
years before, to which Aunt Ellen alluded every day 
of her life with contempt. They said the same 
things to each other, on that and on other subjects, 
time after time. Every day for years Aunt Ellen 
had said that if dear Edward had only been able 
to cut down the trees in front of the house it would 
give them more light and open up the view, and 
she had said it as if it had only just occurred to 
her. And Aunt Laura had replied that she had 
thought the same thing herself, and did Ellen remem¬ 
ber how dear Anne, who was always one to say out 
what she wanted, had asked him if he thought it 


52 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


might be done, but he had said—quite kindly—that 
the trees had always been there, and there they would 
stay. 

The two old ladies welcomed Cicely as if she had 
been a princess with whom it was their privilege to 
be on terms of affectionate intimacy. She was, in 
fact, a princess in their little world, the daughter 
of the reigning monarch, to whom they owed, and 
gave, loyal allegiance. Aunt Laura had been up to 
the house that morning and heard that they were 
to return by the half-past four o’clock train. They 
had been quite sure that Cicely would come to see 
them at once and tell them all her news, and they 
had debated whether they would wait for their own 
tea or not. They had, in fact, waited for a quarter 
of an hour. They told her all this in minute de¬ 
tail, and only by painstaking insistence was Aunt 
Ellen herself prevented from rising to ring the bell 
for a fresh supply to be brought in. “ Well, my 
dear, if you are quite sure you won’t,” she said at 
last, “ I will ring for Rose to take the things away.” 

Cicely rang the bell, and Rose, who five-and-thirty 
years before had come to the dower-house as an 
apple-cheeked girl from the village school, answered 
the summons. She wore a cap with coloured ribbons 
—the two sisters still shook their heads together 
over her tendency to dressiness—and dropped a 
child’s curtsey to Cicely as she came in. She had 
been far too well-trained to speak until she was 
spoken to, but Aunt Ellen said, “ Here is Miss Clin- 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 53 


ton returned from London, Rose, where she has seen 
the King and Queen.” And Rose said, “ Well, there, 
miss! ” with a smile at Cicely, and before she re¬ 
moved the tea-tray settled the white shawl more 
closely round Aunt Ellen’s shoulders. 

“ Rose is a good girl,” said Aunt Ellen, when she 
had left the room, “ but I anj afraid more fond of 
admiration than she should be. Well, dear, now tel? 
us all about what you have seen and done. But, first 
of all, how is your dear father ” 

“ Oh, quite well, thank you. Aunt Ellen,” replied 
Cicely, “ and very pleased to get home, I think.” 

“Ah!” said Aunt Ellen. “We have all missed 
him sorely. I am sure it is wonderful how he 
denies himself all kinds of pleasure to remain here 
and do his duty. It is an example we should all 
do well to follow.” 

“ When he was quite a young man,” said Aunt 
Laura, “ there was no one who was gayer—of course 
in a nice way—and took his part in everything that 
was going on in the higher circles of the metropolis. 
Your dear Aunt Elizabeth used to cut out the 
allusions to him in the Morning Post, and there was^ 
scarcely a great occasion on which his name was not 
mentioned.” 

“ But after two years in his regiment he gave it 
all up to settle down amongst his own people,” said 
Aunt Ellen. “ All his life has been summed up in 
the word ‘ duty.’ I wish there were more like him, 
but there are not.” 


54 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ It seems like yesterday,” said Aunt Laura, 
“ that he joined the Horse Guards Blue. We all 
wished very much to see him in his beautiful uniform, 
which so became him, and your dear Aunt Anne, 
who was always the one to make requests if she saw 
fit, asked him to bring it down to Kencote and put 
it on. Dear Edward, laughed at her, and refused 
—quite kindly, of course—so we all took a little 
trip to London—it was the occasion of the opening 
of the International Reformatory Exhibition at 
Islington by the Prince of Wales, as he was then— 
and your dear father was in the escort. How noble 
he looked on his black horse! I assure you we were 
all very proud of him.” 

Cicely sat patiently silent while these reminis¬ 
cences, which she had heard a hundred times before, 
were entered upon. She looked at Aunt Ellen, fum¬ 
bling with her knitting-needles, and wondered what 
it must be like to be so very old, and at Aunt Laura, 
who was also knitting, with quick and expert fingers, 
and wondered if she had ever been young. 

“ Did the King show your dear father any special 
mark of esteem?” asked Aunt Ellen. “ It did occur 
to your Aunt Laura and myself that, not knowing 
how heavy are the duties which keep him at Kencote, 
His Majesty might have been—I will not say an¬ 
noyed, because he would not be that—but perhaps 
disappointed at not seeing him more often about his 
Court. For in the days gone by he was an ornament 
of it, and I have always understood, though not from 


CLINTONS YOUNG AND OLD 55 


him, that he enjoyed special consideration, which 
would only be his due.” 

“ The King didn’t take any notice of father,” said 
Cicely, with the brusque directness of youth, and 
Aunt Ellen seemed to be somewhat bewildered at the 
statement, not liking to impute blame to her sov¬ 
ereign, but unable for the moment to find any valid 
excuse for him. 

“ I thought,” she said hesitatingly, “ that sending 
specially—the invitation for all of you—but I sup¬ 
pose there were a great many people there.” 

Cicely took her opportunity, and described what 
she had seen and done, brightly and in detail. She 
answered all her aunts’ questions, and interested them 
deeply. Her visits, and those of her mother, or the 
twins with Miss Bird, were the daily enlivenment of 
the two old ladies, and were never omitted. The 
Squire seldom went to the dower-house, but when he 
did look in for a minute or two, happening to pass 
that way, they were thrown into a flutter of pleasure 
and excitement which lasted them for days. 

When Cicely took her leave an hour later. Aunt 
Ellen said: “ The consideration with which dear 
Edward’s family treats us, sister, is something we 
may well be thankful for. I felt quite sure, and I 
told you, that some one would come to see us immedi¬ 
ately upon their return. Cicely is always so bright 
and interesting—a dear girl, and quite takes after 
her father.” 

“ Dear Anne used to say that she took after her 


56 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


mother,” said Aunt Laura; to which Aunt Ellen re¬ 
plied: “ I have not a word to say against Nina; she 
has been a good wife to dear Edward, though we all 
thought at the time of their marriage that he might 
have looked higher. But compared with our nephew, 
quiet and unassuming as she is, she has very little 
character, while Cicely has character. No, sister, 
Cicely is a Clinton—a Clinton through and through,” 


CHAPTER V 


MELBURY PARK 

Family prayers at Kencote took place at nine o’clock, 
breakfast nominally at a quarter past, though 
there was no greater interval between the satisfaction 
of the needs of the soul and those of the body than 
was necessary to enable the long string of servants 
to file out from their seats under the wall, and the 
footmen to return immediately with the hot dishes. 
The men sat nearest to the door and frequently 
pushed back to the dining-room against the last of 
the outflowing tide; for the Squire was ready for his 
breakfast the moment he had closed the book from 
which he had read the petition appointed for the 
day. If there was any undue delay he never failed 
to speak about it at once. This promptness and 
certainty in rebuke, when rebuke was necessary, made 
him a well-served man, both indoors and out. 

Punctuality was rigidly observed by the Clinton 
family. It had to be; especially where the women 
were concerned. If Dick or Humphrey, when they 
were at home, missed prayers, the omission was al¬ 
luded to. If Cicely, or even Mrs. Clinton was late, 
the Squire spoke about it. This was more serious. 
In the case of the boys the rebuke hardly amounted 
to speaking about it. As for the twins, they were 
f>7 


58 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


never late. For one thing their abounding physical 
energy made them anything but lie-abeds, and for 
another, they were so harried during the ten minutes 
before the gong sounded by Miss Bird that there 
would have been no chance of their overlooking the 
hour. If they had been late. Miss Bird would have 
been spoken to, and on the distressing occasions when 
that had happened, it had put her, as she said, all 
in a twitter. 

When it still wanted a few minutes to the hour 
on the morning after the return from London, 
Cicely was standing by one of the big open windows 
talking to Miss Bird, the twins were on the broad 
gravel path immediately outside, and two footmen 
were putting the finishing touches to the appoint¬ 
ments of the table. 

It was a big table, although now reduced to the 
smallest dimensions of which it was capable, for the 
use of the six people who were to occupy it. But 
in that great room it was like an island in the midst 
of a waste of Turkey carpet. The sideboards, 
dinner-wagon, and carving-table, and the long row 
of chairs against the wall opposite to the three 
windows were as if they lined a distant shore. The 
wall-paper of red flock had been an expensive one, 
but it was ugly, and faded in places where the sun 
caught it. It had been good enough for the Squire’s 
grandfather forty years before, and it was good 
enough for him. It was hung with portraits of men 
and women and portraits of horses, some of the latter 


MELBURY PARK 


59 


by animal painters of note. The furniture was all 
of massive mahogany, furniture that would last for 
ever, but had been made after the date at which fur¬ 
niture left off being beautiful as well as lasting. The 
mantelpiece was of brown marble, very heavy and 
very ugly. 

At one minute to nine Mrs. Clinton came in. She 
carried a little old-fashioned basket of keys which 
she put down on the dinner-wagon, exactly in the 
centre of the top shelf. Cicely came forward to kiss 
her, followed by Miss Bird, with comma-less inquiries 
as to how she had spent the night after her journey, 
and the twins came in through the long window to 
wish her good morning. She replied composedly to 
the old starling’s twittering, and cast her eye over 
the attire of the twins, which was sometimes known 
to require adjustment. Then she took her seat in 
one of the big easy-chairs which stood on either side 
of the fireplace, while Porter, the butler, placed a 
Bible and a volume of devotions, both bound in 
brown leather, before the Squire’s seat at the foot 
of the table, and retired to sound the gong. 

It was exactly at this moment that the Squire, 
who opened his letters in the library before break¬ 
fast, was accustomed to enter the room, and, with a 
word of greeting to his assembled family, perch his 
gold-rimmed glasses on his fine straight nose, and 
with the help of two book-markers find the places in 
the Bible and book of prayers to which the year in 
its diurnal course had brought him. The gong would 


60 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


sound, either immediately before or immediately after 
he had entered the room, the maids and the men 
who had been assembling in the hall would file in, 
he would throw a glance towards them over his 
glasses to see that they were all settled, and then 
begin to read in a fast, country gentleman’s voice 
the portion of Scripture that was to hallow the day 
now officially beginning. 

The gong rolled forth its sounding reverberation. 
Miss Bird and the three girls took their seats, and 
then there was a pause. In a house of less rigid 
habits of punctuality it would have been filled by 
small talk, but here it was so unusual that when it 
had lasted for no more than ten seconds the twins 
looked at one another in alert curiosity and Cicely’s 
eyes met those of her mother, which showed a 
momentary apprehension before they fixed them¬ 
selves again upon the shining steel of the fire bars. 
Another ten seconds went by and then the library 
door was heard to open and the Squire’s tread, 
heavy on the paved hall. 

Four pairs of eyes were fixed upon him as he 
entered the room, followed at a short but respectful 
interval by the servants. Mrs. Clinton still looked 
inscrutably at the grate. The Squire’s high colour 
was higher than its wont, his thick grizzled eye¬ 
brows were bent into a frown, and his face was set 
in lines of anger which he evidently had difficulty 
in controlling. He fumbled impatiently with the 
broad markers as he opened the books, and omitted 


MELBURY PARK 


61 


the customary glance towards the servants as he 
began to read in a voice deeper and more hurried 
than usual. When he laid down the Bible and took 
up the book of prayers he remained standing, as 
he sometimes did if he had a touch of rheumatism; 
but he had none now, and his abstention from a 
kneeling position amounted to a declaration that he 
was willing to go through the form of family prayers 
for routine’s sake but must really be excused from 
giving a mind to it which was otherwise occupied. 

It was plain that he had received a letter which 
had upset his equanimity. This had happened be¬ 
fore, and the disturbance created made manifest in 
much the same way. But it had happened seldom, 
because a man who is in possession of an income in 
excess of his needs is immune from about half the 
worries that come with the morning’s post, and any 
annoyance arising from the administration of his 
estate was not usually made known to him by letter. 
The Squire’s letter-bag was normally as free of of¬ 
fence as that of any man in the country. 

The twins, eying one another with surreptitious 
and fearful pleasure, conveyed in their glances a 
knowledge of what had happened. The thing that 
Walter and Muriel had made up their minds about, 
whatever it was—that was what had caused the 
Squire to remain behind a closed door until he had 
gained some slight control over his temper, and led 
him now to prefer the petitions appointed in the 
book bound in brown leather in a voice between a 


62 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


rumble and a bark. Perhaps everything would come 
out when Porter and the footman had brought in 
the tea and coffee service and the breakfast dishes, 
and left the room. If it did not, they would hear 
all about it later. Their father’s anger held no 
terrors for them, unless it was directed against 
themselves, and even then considerably less than 
might have been supposed. He was often angry, or 
appeared to be, but he never did anything. Even 
in the memorable upheaval of seven years before— 
when Walter had finally refused to become a clergy¬ 
man and announced his determination of becoming a 
doctor—which had been so unlike anything that had 
ever happened within their knowledge that it had 
impressed itself even upon their infant minds, and 
of which they had long since worried all the details 
out of Cicely, he had made a great deal of noise but 
had given way in the end. He would give way now, 
however completely he might lose his temper in the 
process. The twins had no fear of a catastrophe, 
and therefore looked forward with interest, as they 
knelt side by side, with their plump chins propped 
on their plump hands, to the coming storm. 

The storm broke, as anticipated, when the servants 
had finally left the room, and the Squire had ranged 
over the silver dishes on the side-table for one to his 
liking, a search in which he was unsuccessful. 

“ I wish you would tell Barnes that if she can’t 
think of anything for breakfast but bacon, and 
scrambled eggs, and whiting, and mushrooms, she had 


MELBURY PARK 


63 


better go, and the sooner the better,” he said, bend¬ 
ing a terrifying frown on his wife. “ Same thing day 
after day! ” But he piled a plate with bacon and 
eggs and mushrooms and carried it off to his seat, 
while his daughters and Miss Bird waited round him 
until he had helped himself. 

“ I have just had a letter from Walter,” he began 
directly he had taken his seat, “ which makes me 
so angry that, ’pon my word, I scarcely know what 
to do. Nina, this milk is burnt. Barnes shall go. 
She sends up food fit for the pig-tub. Why can’t 
you see that the women servants do their duty.f^ I 
can’t take everything on my shoulders. God knows 
I’ve got enough to put up with as it is.” 

“ Joan, ring the bell,” said Mrs. Clinton. 

“ Oh—God’s sake—no, no,” fussed the Squire. 
“ I don’t want the servants in. Give me some tea. 
Miss Bird, here’s my cup, please. Take it, please, 
take it. Miss Bird. I don’t know when I’ve felt so 
annoyed. You do all you can and put yourself to 
an infinity of trouble and expense for the sake of 
your children, and then they behave like this. 
Really, Walter wants a good thrashing to bring him 
to his senses. If I had nipped all this folly of doc¬ 
toring in the bud, as I ought to have done, I might 
have been able to live my life in peace. It’s too bad; 
’pon my word, it’s too bad.” 

The twins, sustaining their frames diligently with 
bacon and eggs and mushrooms—the whiting was at 
a discount—waited with almost too obvious expecta- 


64 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


tion for the full disclosure of Walter’s depravity. 
Cicely, alarmed for the sake of Muriel, ate nothing 
and looked at her father anxiously. Miss Bird was 
in a state of painful confusion because she had not 
realised effectively that the Squire had wanted his 
cup of coffee exchanged for a cup of tea, and might 
almost be said to have been “ spoken to ” about her 
stupidity. Only with Mrs. Clinton did it rest to draw 
the fire which, if she did it unskilfully, might very 
well be turned upon herself. A direct question would 
certainly have so turned it. 

“ I am sorry that Walter has given you any fur¬ 
ther cause of complaint, Edward,” she said. 

This was not skilful enough. ‘‘ Cause of com¬ 
plaint ! ” echoed the Squire irritably. “ Am I 
accustomed to complain about anything without good 
reason? You talk as if I am the last man in the 
world to have the right to expect my wishes to be 
consulted. Every one knows that I gave way to 
Walter against my better judgment. I allowed him 
to take up this doctoring because he had set his mind 
on it, and I have never said a word against it since. 
And how now does he reward me when he has got 
to the point at which he might begin to do himself 
and his family some credit? Coolly writes to me for 
money —to me—for money —to enable him to buy a 
practice at Melbury Park, if you please. Melbury 
Park! Pah!!” 

The Squire pushed his half-emptied plate away 
from him in uncontrollable disgust. He was really 


MELBURY PARK 


65 


too upset to eat his breakfast. The utterance of 
the two words which summed up Walter’s blind, 
infatuated stampede from respectability brought 
back all the poignant feelings with which he had first 
read his letter. For the moment he was quite beside 
himself with anger and disgust, and unless relief 
had been brought to him he would have left 
his breakfast unfinished and stalked out of the 
room. 

Nancy brought the relief with the artless question, 
“ Where is Melbury Park, father.? ” 

“ Hold your tongue,” said the Squire promptly, 
and then drew a lurid picture of a place delivered 
over entirely to the hovels of nameless people of the 
lower middle classes, and worse, a place in which you 
would be as effectually cut off from your fellows 
as if you went to live in Kamschatka. Indeed, you 
would not be so cut off if you went to Kamschatka, 
for you might be acknowledged to be living there, but 
to have it said that you lived at Melbury Park would 
stamp you. It would be as easy to say you were 
living in Halloway Goal. It was a place they 
stopped you at when you came into London on the 
North Central Railway, to take your tickets. The 
Squire mentioned'this as if a place where they took 
your tickets was of necessity a dreadful kind of a 
place. “ Little have I ever thought,” he said, 
“ when I have been pulled up there, and looked at 
those streets and streets of mean little houses, that 
a son of mine would one day want to go and live 


66 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


there. ’Pon my word, I think Walter’s brain must 
be giving way.” 

It was Cicely who asked why Walter wanted to 
live at Melbury Park, and what Muriel said about it. 

“ He doesn’t say a word about Muriel,” snapped 
the Squire. “ I suppose Muriel is backing him up. 
I shall certainly speak to Jim and Mrs. Graham 
about it. It is disgraceful—positively disgraceful— 
to think of taking a girl like Muriel to live in such 
a place. She wouldn’t have a soul to speak to, and 
she would have to mix with all sorts of people. A 
doctor’s wife can’t keep to herself like other women. 
Oh, I don’t know why he wants to go there. Don’t 
ask me such questions. I was ready to start him 
amongst nice people, whatever it had cost, and he 
might have been in a first-class position while other 
men of his age were only thinking about it. But 
no, he must have his own silly way. He shan’t have 
his way. I’ll put my foot down. I won’t have the 
name of Clinton disgraced. It has been respected 
for hundreds of years, and I don’t know that I’ve 
ever done anything to bring it down. It’s a little too 
much that one of my own sons should go out of his 
way to throw mud at it. I’ve stood enough. I 
won’t stand any more. Melbury Park! A pretty 
sort of park! ” 

Having thus relieved his feelings the Squire 
was enabled to eat a fairly good breakfast, with a 
plateful of ham to follow his bacon and eggs and 
mushrooms, a spoonful or two of marmalade, and 


MELBURY PARK 


67 


)wme strawbernef to finish up with. It came 
out further that Walter was coming down by the 
afternoon train to dine and sleep, and presumably 
to discuss the proposal of which he had given 
warning, and that the Squire proposed to ask Tom 
and his wife to luncheon, or rather that Mrs. Clinton 
should drop in at the Rectory in the course of the 
morning and ask them, as he would be too busy. 

Then Cicely asked if she might have Kitty, the 
pony, for the morning, and the Squire at once said, 
“ No, she’ll be wanted to take up food for the 
pheasants,” after which he retired to his room, but 
immediately returned to ask Cicely what she wanted 
the pony for. 

I want to go over to Mountfield,” said Cicely. 

“Very well, you can have her,” said the Squire, 
and retired again. 

Mrs. Clinton made no comment on the disclosures 
that had been made, but took up her basket of keys 
and left the room. 

“ Now, Joan and Nancy, do not linger but get 
ready for your lessons at a quarter to ten punctu¬ 
ally,” Miss Bird broke forth volubly. “ Every 
morning I have to hunt you from the breakfast table 
and my life is spent in trying to make you punctual 
I am sure if your father knew the trouble I have with 
you he would speak to you about it and then you 
would see.” 

“ Melbury Park!” exclaimed Nancy in a voice 
of the deepest disgust, as she rose slowly from the 


68 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


table. ‘‘ ’Pon my word, Joan, r!’ coo bad. I spend 
my life in trying to make you punctual and then you 
want to go to Melbury Park! Pah! A nice sort of 
a park! ” 

“ Are you going to see Muriel, Cicely ? ” asked 
Joan, also rising deliberately. “ Starling, darling! 
Don’t hustle me, I’m coming. I only want to ask my 
sister Cicely a question.” 

“ Yes,” said Cicely. “ If I couldn’t have had 
Kitty I should have walked.” 

“How unreasonable you are. Cicely,” said Nancy. 
“ The pony is wanted to take chickweed to the 
canaries at Melbury Park.” 

“ Find out all about it, Cis,” said Joan in process 
of being pushed out of the room. “ Oh, take it. Miss 
Bird, please, take it.” 

Cicely drove off through the park at half-past ten. 
Until she had passed through the lodge gates and 
got between the banks of a deep country lane, Kitty 
went her own pace, quite aware that she was being 
driven by one whose unreasonable inclinations for 
speed must subordinate themselves to the comfort 
of pony-flesh as long as she was in sight of house 
or stables. Then, with a shake of her head, she sud¬ 
denly quickened her trot, but did not escape the cut 
of a whip which was always administered to her at 
this point. With that rather vicious little cut Cicely 
expressed her feelings at a state of things in which, 
with fourteen or fifteen horses in the stable and half 
a dozen at the home farm, the only animal at the 


MELBURY PARK 


69 


disposal of herself and her sisters was always wanted 
for something else whenever they asked for it. 

The Squire had four hunters—sometimes more— 
which nobody but himself ever used, and the price 
of a horse that would carry a man of his weight 
comfortably ran into treble figures more often than 
not. Dick kept a couple always at Kencote, even 
Walter had one, and Humphrey and Frank could 
always be mounted whenever they wanted a day with 
the South Meadshire. There were nine or ten horses, 
standing in stalls or loose boxes or at grass, kept 
entirely for the amusement of her father and 
brothers, besides half a dozen more for the carriages, 
the station omnibus, the luggage cart, and all the 
dynamic demands of a large household. The boys 
had all had their ponies as soon as their legs could 
grip a saddle. This very pony that she was driving 
was really Frank’s, having been rescued for him 
from a butcher’s cart in Bathgate fourteen years 
before, and nobody knew how old she was. She was 
used for the mowing machine and for every sort of 
little odd job about the garden, and seemed as if she 
might go on for ever. It was only when Cicely or 
the twins drove her that the reminder was given that 
she was not as young as she had been, and must not 
be hustled. 

And she was all they were ever allowed to drive, 
and then only when she was not wanted for something 
else. It was a Clinton tradition, deriving probably 
from Colonel Thomas and his six stay-at-home 


70 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


daughters, that the women of the family did not 
hunt. They were encouraged to drive and allowed 
to ride to the meets of hounds if there was anything 
to carry them, and in Cicely’s childhood there had 
been other ponies besides Kitty, left-offs of her 
elder brothers, which she had used. But she had 
never been given a horse of her own, and the hunters 
were far too precious to be galled by a side-saddle. 
What did she want to ride for.?^ The Squire hated 
to see women flying about the country like men, and 
he wasn’t going to have any more horses in the 
stable. The men had more than enough to do as it 
was. It was part of the whole unfair scheme on 
which life at Kencote was based. Everything was 
done for the men and boys of the family, and the 
women and girls must content themselves with what 
was left over. 

Pondering these and other things. Cicely drove 
along the country lanes, between banks and hedges 
bright with the growth of early summer, through 
woods in which pheasants, reared at great expense 
that her father and brothers and their friends might 
kill them, called one another hoarsely, as if in a 
continual state of gratulation at having for a yeai! 
at least escaped their destined end; between fields 
in which broods of partridges ran in and out of the 
roots of the green corn; across a bridge near which 
was a deep pool terrifically guarded by a notice- 
board against those who might have disturbed the 
fat trout lying in its shadows; across a gorse-grown 


MELBURY PARK 


71 


common, sacred home of an old dog-fox that had 
defied the South Meadshire hounds for five seasons; 
and so, out of her father’s property on to that of 
Jim Graham, in which blood relations of the Kencote 
game and vermin were protected with equal care, 
in order that the Grahams might fulfil the destiny 
appointed for them and the Clintons and the whole 
race of squirearchy alike. 

The immediate surroundings of Mountfield were 
prettier than those of Kencote. The house stood 
at the foot of a wooded rise, and its long white front 
showed up against a dark background of trees. It 
was older in date than Georgian Kencote, and al¬ 
though its walls had been stuccoed out of all resem¬ 
blance to those of an old house, its high-pitched 
roof and twisted chimney stacks had been left as 
they were. The effect was so incongruous that even 
unsesthetic Alexander Graham, Jim’s father, had 
thought of uncovering the red brick again. But the 
front had been altered to allow for bigger windows 
and a portico resembling that at Kencote, and the 
architect whom he had consulted, had pressed him to 
spend more money on it than he felt inclined to. So 
he had left it alone and spent none; and Jim, who 
was not so well off as his father by the amount of 
Muriel’s portion and the never-to-be-forgiven Har- 
court duties, was not likely to have a thousand 
pounds to spare for making his rooms darker for 
some years to come. 

The old stable buildings, untouched by the re- 


72 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


storer, flanked the house on one side and the high 
red brick wall of the gardens on the other. The 
drive sloped gently up from the gates through an 
undulating park more closely planted than that of 
Kencote. There were some very old trees at Mount- 
field and stretches of bracken here and there beneath 
them. It was a pity that the house had been spoilt 
in appearance, but its amenities were not wholly 
destroyed. Cicely knew it almost as well as she 
knew Kencote, but she acknowledged its charm now 
as she drove up between the oak and the young fern. 
Under the blue June sky strewn with light clouds, 
it stood for a peaceful, pleasant life, if rather a dull 
one, and she could not help wondering whether her 
friend would really be happier in a house of her 
own in Melbury Park, which, if painted in somewhat 
exaggeratedly dark colours by Cicely’s father, had 
not struck her, when she had seen it from the 
railway, as a place in which any one could possibly 
live of choice. Perhaps Walter had over-persuaded 
her. She would know very soon now, for Muriel told 
her everything. 


CHAPTER VI 


A GOOD LONG TALK 

Mrs. Graham —she was the Honourable Mrs. Gra¬ 
ham, a daughter of the breeder of Jove H. and other 
famous shorthorns—came out of the door leading to 
the stableyard as Cicely drove up. She had been 
feeding young turkeys, and wore a shortish skirt of 
brown tweed, thick boots and a green Tyrolean hat, 
and was followed by three dogs—a retriever, a 
dachshund, and one that might have been anything. 
She was tall and spare, with a firm-set, healthy face, 
and people sometimes said that she ought to have 
been a man. But she was quite happy as a woman, 
looking after her poultry and her garden out of 
doors, and her dogs and her household within. She 
had hardly moved from Mountfield since her mar¬ 
riage thirty years before, and the only fly in the 
ointment of content in which she had embalmed her¬ 
self was that she would have to leave it when Jim 
married. But she greeted Cicely, who was expected 
to supplant her, with bright cordiality, and lifted up 
a loud voice to summon a groom to lead off Kitty to 
the stable. 

“ My dear,” she said; ‘‘ such a nuisance as this 
wedding is you never knew. It’s as much as I can 
do to keep the birds and the animals fed, and how 
73 


74 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


I shall look in heliotrope and an aigrette the Lord 
only knows. But I suppose nobody will look at me, 
and Muriel will be a picture. Have you heard that 
Walter is going to take her to live at Melbury Park.? 
It seems a funny place to go to live in, doesn’t it.? 
But I suppose they won’t mind as long as they are 
together. I never saw such a pair of love-birds.” 

“ Walter wrote to father about it this morning,” 
said Cicely, “ and he is coming down this afternoon. 
Father is furious with him.” 

“ Well, I’m sure I don’t know why,” said Mrs. 
Graham equably. “ I shouldn’t care to live in Mel¬ 
bury Park myself, and I don’t suppose Mr. Clinton 
would. But nobody asks him to. If they want to, 
it’s their own affair. I’m all for letting peo¬ 
ple go their own way—always have been. I go 
mine.” 

“ Why does Walter choose such a place as that 
to take Muriel to.? ” asked Cicely, who had not 
remained quite unimpressed by the Squire’s diatribe 
against the unfortunate suburb. 

“ Oh, it’s convenient for his hospital and gives 
him the sort of practice he wants for a 3 "ear or two. 
I don’t know. They won’t live there for ever. I 
don’t suppose it will kill them to know a few people 
you wouldn’t ask to dinner. It hasn’t killed me. I 
get on with farmers’ wives better than anybody— 
ought to have been one.” 

“ Father is going to ask you to put your foot 
down and say Muriel shan’t go there,” said Cicely. 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


75 


“ Well then, I won’t,” replied Mrs. Graham de¬ 
cisively. “ I’m not a snob.” Then she added hur¬ 
riedly, “ I don’t say that your father is one either; 
but he does make a terrible fuss about all that sort 
of thing. I should have thought a Clinton was good 
enough to be able to know anybody without doing 
himself any harm. But you had better go and talk 
to Muriel about it, my dear. You will find her up¬ 
stairs, with her clothes. Oh, those clothes! I must 
go and look after the gardeners. They are putting 
liquid manure on the roses, and I’m afraid they will 
mix it too strong.” 

Mrs. Graham went off to attend to her unsavoury 
but congenial task, and Cicely went indoors and up 
to Muriel’s room, where she found her friend with 
a maid, busy over some detail of her trousseau. They 
greeted one another with coolness but affection, the 
maid was sent out of the room, and they settled 
down in chintz-covered easy-chairs by the window for 
the usual good long talk. 

Muriel was a pretty girl, less graceful than Cicely, 
but with her big brown eyes and masses of dark hair, 
a foil to her friend’s fair beauty. She had her 
mother’s sensible face, but was better-looking than 
her mother had ever been. 

‘‘ Now you must tell me every word from the be¬ 
ginning,” she said. “ You said nothing in your let¬ 
ters. You didn’t make me see the room, or any one 
in it.” 

Cicely had a good deal to say about her late ex- 


76 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


periences, but her friend’s own affairs were of more 
recent interest. ‘‘ But I want to hear about Walter 
and Melbury Park first,” she said. There is a rare 
to-do about it at Kencote, I can tell you, Muriel.” 

‘‘Is there” said Muriel, after a short pause, as 
if she were adjusting her thoughts. “ That was what 
Walter was afraid of.” 

“ Don’t you mind going to live in a place like 
that.^ ” asked Cicely. “Father thinks it is a shame 
that Walter should take you there.” 

“ O my dear,” said Muriel, with a trifle of im¬ 
patience, “ you know quite well what I think about 
all that sort of thing. We have talked it over hun¬ 
dreds of times. Here we are, stuck down in the 
middle of all this, with nothing in the world to do 
but amuse ourselves, if we can, and never any chance 
of pushing along. We have got it all; there is noth¬ 
ing to go for. That’s what I first admired about my 
darling old Walter. He struck out a line of his 
own. If he had been content just to lop over the 
fence into Kencote Rectory, I don’t think I should 
ever have fallen in love with him. I don’t know, 
though. He is the sweetest old dear.” 

“ Oh, don’t begin about Walter,” urged Cicely. 

“ Yes, I will begin about Walter,” replied Muriel, 
“ and I’ll go on with Walter. He says now that 
the only thing he is really keen about—except 
me—is his work. He always liked it, in a way, 
but when he made up his mind to be a doctor it was 
only because he knew he must have some profession. 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


77 


and he thought he might as well have one that inter¬ 
ested him. But now it takes up all his thoughts, 
except when he comes down here for a holiday, and 
you know how the old pet enjoys his holidays. Well, 
I’m going to do all I can to help him to get on. He 
says this practice at Melbury Park is just what 
he wants, to get his hand in; he won’t be worried 
with a lot of people who aren’t really ill at all, but 
have to be kept in a good humour in case they 
should go off to another doctor. It will be hard, 
sound work, and he will be in touch with the hos¬ 
pital all the time. He is immensely keen about it. 
I don’t want to say anything against jNIr. Clinton, 
but why canH he see that Walter is worth all the 
rest of your brothers put together, because he has 
set out to do something and they are just having a 
good time ? ” 

“ Oh, well, Muriel, I caji’t allow that,” said Cicely. 
“ Dick is quite a good soldier. He got his D.S.O. 
in the war. And besides, his real work is to look 
after the property, and he knows as much about 
that as father. And Humphrey has to go about a 
lot. You must, in the Foreign Office. And Frank 
—he is doing all right. He was made doggy to his 
Admiral only the other day.” 

“ Well, at any rate,” replied Muriel, “ they start 
from what they are. And you can’t say that their 
chief aim isn’t to have a good time. Walter has gone 
in against men who have to work, whether they want 
to or not, and he has done as well as any of them. 


78 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


He owes nothing to being the son of a rich man. 
It has been against him, if anything.” 

“ Father hoped he was going to set up as a con¬ 
sulting physician,” said Cicely. 

“Yes, and why.?” asked Muriel. “Only because 
he wants him to live amongst the right sort of 
people. He doesn’t care a bit whether he would 
make a good consultant or not. Walter says he 
isn’t ready for it. He wants more experience. It 
will all come in time. He is not even quite sure what 
he wants to specialise on, or if he wants to specialise 
at all. At present he only wants to be a G.P., with 
plenty of work and time for the hospital.” 

“ What is a G.P. ? ” asked Cicely. 

“ Oh, a general practitioner. It’s what Walter 
calls it.” 

“ Then why can’t he be a G.P. in a nicer place 
than Melbury Park.? It is rather hard on you, 
Muriel, to take you to a place where you can’t know 
anybody.” 

“ O my dear, what do I care for all that nonsense 
about knowing people? Surely there’s enough of 
that here! Is this person to be called on, who has 
come to live in a house which nobody ever called at 
before, or that person, because nobody has ever 
heard of her people? I’m sick of it. Even mother 
won’t call on Bathgate people, however nice they 
may be, and she’s not nearly so stuck up as most of 
the county women.” 

“ Yes, I know all that, and of course it’s nonsense. 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


79 


But you must admit that it is different with people 
who aren’t gentle-people at all.” 

“ I’m not a fool, and I don’t pretend that I’m 
going to make bosom friends of all Walter’s patients, 
though I am going to do what I can to make things 
pleasant all round. We shall see our friends in 
London, of course. Jim is going to give us a jolly 
good motor-car, and we shall be able to dine out 
and go to the play and all that if we want to, and 
people ask us. But it is all so unimportant. Cicely, 
that side of it. Walter wants to get out of it. He’ll 
be very busy, and the best times we shall have will 
be in our own little house alone, or going right away 
when we get a holiday.” 

“ I dare say you are quite right,” said Cicely. “ Of 
course it will be jolly to have your own house and do 
what you like with it. Has Walter got a house 
yet.?” 

“ There is quite a decent one we can have where 
the man who wants to sell the practice lives. It is 
really bigger than we want, although it’s only a 
semi-detached villa. I should be able to have my 
friends to stay with me. Cicely, you must come 
directly we move in, and help to get things straight, 
if we go there.” 

“ Oh, you’ll go there all right, if Walter has made 
up his mind about it,” said Cicely. “ Father thinks 
he will hold out, but he knows, really, that he won’t. 
That’s what makes him so wild.” 

Both the girls laughed. “He is a funny old 


80 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


thing,” said Muriel apologetically, “ but he has been 
very nice to me.” 

“ Only because you have got ten thousand pounds, 
my dear, and are the right sort of match for Walter. 
He wouldn’t be very nice to you if Walter had found 
you at Melbury Park; not. even if you had your ten 
thousand pounds. Oh dear, I wish I had ten thou¬ 
sand pounds.” 

“ What would you do with it? ” 

“ I should travel. At any rate I should go away 
from Kencote. Muriel, I am sick to death of 
it.” 

“ Ah, that is because it seems dull after London. 
You haven’t told me a word about all that you have 
been doing, and I have been talking about myself 
all the time.” 

“ I didn’t care a bit about London. I didn’t enjoy 
it at all—except the opera.” 

“ Don’t try to be blasee, my dear girl. Of course 
you enjoyed it.” 

‘‘ I tell you I didn’t. Look here, Muriel, really it 
is unfair the way the boys have everything in our 
family and the girls have nothing.” 

“ I do think it is a shame you are not allowed to 
hunt.” 

“ It isn’t only that. It is the same with every¬ 
thing. I have seen it much more plainly since I 
went to London.” 

“Well, my dear, you went to a Court Ball, and 
to all the best houses. The boys don’t do more than 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


81 


that. I shouldn’t do as much if I went to London 
in the season.” 

“ Yes, I went. And I went because Cousin 
Humphrey took the trouble to get cards for us. He 
is an old darling. Do you suppose father would 
have taken the smallest trouble about it—for me and 
mother ? ” 

“ He knows all the great people. I suppose a 
Clinton is as good as anybody.” 

“ Yes, a man Clinton. That is just it. Dick and 
Humphrey go everywhere as a matter of course. I 
saw enough of it to know what society in London 
means. It is like a big family; you meet the same 
people night after night, and everybody knows 
everybody else—that is in the houses that Cousin 
Humphrey got us invited to. Dick and Humphrey 
know everybody like that; they were part of the 
family; and mother and I were just country cousins 
who knew nobody.” 

“ Well, of course, they are there all the time and 
you were only up for a fortnight. Didn’t they in¬ 
troduce you to people.? ” 

“ O yes. Dick and Humphrey are kind enough. 
They wanted me to have a good time. But you are 
not supposed to want introductions in London. 
You are supposed to know enough men to dance 
with, or you wouldn’t be there. And the men don’t 
like it. I often heard Dick and Humphrey apolo¬ 
gising to their friends for asking them to dance with 
me. You know the sort of thing, Muriel: ‘You 


82 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


might take a turn with my little sister, old man, if 
you’ve nobody better. She’s up here on the spree 
and she don’t know anybody.’ ” 

“ O Cicely, they wouldn’t give you away like 
that.” 

“ Perhaps not quite as bad as that. Dick and 
Humphrey are nice enough as brothers, and I be¬ 
lieve they’re proud of me too, in a way. They al¬ 
ways danced with me themselves, and they always 
noticed what I was wearing, and said I looked a 
topper. I know I looked all right, but directly I 
opened my mouth I gave myself away, just like a 
maid in her mistress’s clothes.” 

“ O Cicely! ” 

“ Well, it was like that. I had nothing to talk 
about. I don’t know London; I can’t talk scandal 
about people I don’t know. Of course I had to tell 
them I had always lived in the country, and then 
they began to talk about hunting at once. Then I 
had to say that I didn’t hunt, and then they used 
to look at me through their eyeglasses, and wonder 
what the deuce I did do with myself. The fact is, 
that I can’t do anything. Even the ones with 
brains—there were a few of them—who tried me with 
things besides hunting, couldn’t get anything out 
of me, because there is nothing to get. I’ve never 
been anywhere or seen anything. I don’t know 
anything—nothing about books or pictures or 
music or plays. Why on earth should they want to 
talk to me? Hardly any of them did twice, unless 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


83 


it was those who thought I was pretty and wanted 
to flirt with me. I felt such a fooll ” 

She was almost in tears. Her pretty face under 
its white motor-cap was flushed; she twisted her 
gloves in her slender hands. 

‘‘ O Cicely, darling! ” said Muriel sympathetically, 
“ you are awfully bright and clever, really. You’ve 
many more brains than I have.” 

‘‘ I’m not clever, but I’ve got as many brains as 
other girls. And what chance have I ever had of 
learning anything.?^ Dick and Humphrey and Walter 
were all sent to Eton and Oxford or Cambridge. 
They have all had the most expensive education that 
any boys could have, and as long as they behaved 
themselves pretty well, nobody cared in the least 
whether they took advantage of it or not. What 
education have I had.?^ Miss Bird! I don’t suppose 
she knows enough to get a place as teacher in a 
village school. I suppose I know just about as much 
as the girls who do go to a village school. I haven’t 
even had lessons in drawing or music, or anything 
that I might perhaps have been good at. I’m an 
ignorant fool, and it’s all father’s fault, and it isn’t 
fair.” 

She had talked herself into actual tears now. 
Muriel said, in a dry voice which did not accord 
with her expression of face, This sudden rage for 
learning is a new thing, my dear.” 

Cicely dabbed her eyes impatiently and sat up in 
her chair. “ I dare say I am talking a lot of non- 


84 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


sense,” she said, ‘‘ but I have been wondering what 
I do get for being the daughter of a rich country 
gentleman; because father is rich, as well as being the 
head of an important family, as he is always re¬ 
minding us, though he pretends to think nothing of 
it. He has never gone without anything he wanted 
in the whole of his life, and the boys have everything 
they want too, that can be got for money.” 

Your allowance was just twice as much as 
mine, when father was alive,” Muriel reminded 
her. 

“ Oh, I know I can have plenty of nice clothes and 
all that,” said Cicely, “ and I have nice food too, and 
plenty of it, and a nice room, and a big house to 
live in. But I don’t call it living, that’s all. Father 
and the boys can live. We can’t. Outside Kencote, 
we’re nobody at all—I’ve found that out—and 
mother is of no more importance than I am. We’re 
just the women of the family. Anything is good 
enough for us.” 

“ I don’t think you are quite fair. Cicely. Mrs. 
Clinton doesn’t care for going about, does she.? It 
would depend more upon her than your father and 
brothers.” 

“ What would depend on her ? ” 

‘‘ Well, I mean you grumble at Dick and Humphrey 
knowing more people than you do.” 

“ I suppose what you do mean is that the Birkets 
aren’t as good as the Clintons.” 

There was the slightest pause. Then Muriel said. 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


85 


a little defiantly, “ Well, the Grahams aren’t as good 
as the Conroys.” 

“ I know that mother isn’t only as good as father; 
she is a great deal better.” 

Cicely spoke with some heat, and Muriel made 
a little.gesture with her hands. “Oh, all right, my 
dear,” she said, “ if you don’t want to talk straight.” 
It was a formula they used. 

Cicely hesitated. “ If you mean,” she began, but 
Muriel interrupted her. “ You know quite well what 
I mean, and you know what I don’t mean. You 
know I would never say that Mrs. Clinton wasn’t 
as good as anybody in the world, in the sense you 
pretended to take my words. We were talking of 
something quite different.” 

“ Sorry, Muriel,” replied Cicely. This was an¬ 
other formula. “We did go to a dance at Aunt 
Emmeline’s, you know. If I hadn’t been to all those 
other houses I should have enjoyed it immensely. 
Well, I did enjoy it—better, really. Aunt Em¬ 
meline saw that I had heaps of partners and I got 
on well with them. They were mostly barristers and 
people like that. They took the trouble to talk, 
and some of them even made me talk. It is a lovely 
house—of course not like one of the great London 
houses, but with two big drawing-rooms, and Iff’s 
band, and everything done very well. If I had gone 
straight up from here to that ball, it would have 
been one of the best I had ever gone to.” 

“ Well, Mr. Birket is a famous barrister, and I 


86 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


suppose is very well off too. I should think he 
knows as many interesting people as anybody.” 

“ Interesting people, yes; but there wasn’t a soul 
there that I had seen at the other houses, except 
Dick and Humphrey.” 

« Were they there? ” 

“There!” cried Cicely triumphantly. “You see 
you are quite surprised at that.” 

“ Well,” said Muriel firmly, “ they were there. 
And how did they behave ? ” 

“ Oh, they behaved all right. Humphrey went 
away early, but Dick stayed quite a long time. 
Dick can be very sweet if he likes, and he doesn’t 
give himself airs, really—he only takes it for granted 
that he is a great personage. And so he is; you 
would say so if you saw him in London. Do you 
know, Muriel, I was next to the Duchess of Pevensey 
at Dunster House, and I heard her whisper to her 
daughter, quite sharply, ‘ Evelyn, keep a valse for 
Captain Clinton, in case he asks you.’ Of course 
she hadn’t an idea that I was Captain Clinton’s 
sister. She had looked down her nose at me just 
before, and wondered what I was doing there.” 

“ I suppose she didn’t say so.” 

“ Her nose did. You should have seen her face 
when Dick came up the moment after and said, 
‘ Here you are. Siskin; come and have a spin ’; 
and didn’t take any notice of dear Evelyn, who must 
have been at least thirty.” 

“Well, go on about Mrs. Birket’s.” 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


87 


“ Yes, well, Dick said, ‘ Now, Siskin, I don’t know 
any of the pretty ladies here, and I’m going to 
dance with you.’ But when Aunt Emmeline came 
up and insisted upon introducing him to a lot of 
girls, he went off as nicely as possible and danced 
with the whole lot of them. And, you know, a man 
like Dick isn’t supposed to have to do that sort of 
thing.” 

Muriel laughed; and Cicely, who had recovered her 
good humour, laughed too. “ Of course, it wasn’t 
anything to fuss about, really,” she said, “ but you 
see what I mean, Muriel, don’t you.? ” 

“No, I don’t,” said Muriel, “ unless you mean 
exactly what I said just now, and you bit my head 
off for. Mr. Clinton is what some people call a 
swell, and Dick is a swell too. The Grahams aren’t 
swells, and the Birkets aren’t either. And if you 
want it quite straight, my dear, neither you nor I 
are swells; we’re only what they call county.” 

“You’re so sensible, Muriel darling!” said 
Cicely. 

“ And you’ve had your head turned. Cicely 
darling!” retorted Muriel. “You have been taken 
up by your great relations, and you have come back 
to your simple home discontented.” 

“ It’s all very well, though,” said Cicely, becoming 
serious again, “ but I’m a Clinton just as much as 
the boys are, and just as much as you are a Graham. 
You say the Grahams are not swells—you do use 
horrible language, Muriel dear—but I suppose Lord 


88 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Conray is, and so, according to your argument > you 
ought to be.” 

“ Uncle Blobs isn’t a swell—^he’s only a farmer 
with a title.” 

“ Oh! then I don’t know what you mean by a 
swell.” 

“ Well, of course the Conroys are swells in a way, 
but they don’t care about swelling. If mother had 
liked—and father had let her—she could have been 
a fashionable lady, and dear Muriel could have been 
a fashionable girl, with her picture in the illustrated 
papers, sitting in front of a lattice window with a 
sweet white frock and a bunch of lilies. ‘ We give 
this week a charming photograph of Miss Muriel 
Graham, the only daughter of the Honourable Mrs. 
Graham. Mrs. Graham is a daughter of ’ and so 
on. As it is, dear Muriel is just the daughter of a 
country squire.” 

“ That is all dear Cicely is, though you said just 
now that father was a swell. I don’t see, really, that 
he is much more of a swell than Mr. Graham was— 
here.” 

‘‘ No—he isn’t—here. That’s just it. That is 
what you are running your head against, my dear. 
Perhaps he isn’t really a swell at all, now. But he 
could be if he liked, and he was when he was young. 
It is because he likes being a country squire best 
that you have got to put up with being a country 
squire’s daughter. I’m sorry for you, as j^ou seem 
to feel it so much, but I’m afraid there’s no help for 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


89 


it. I don’t think, really, you have much to grumble 
at, but I suppose if you live for a fortnight ex¬ 
clusively amongst dukes and duchesses, you are apt 
to get a little above yourself. Now tell me all about 
the Court Ball.” 

Cicely told her all about the Court Ball; then 
they talked about other things, and Muriel said, 
“ You have never asked about Jim. His ship is due 
in London next Wednesday and he will be home the 
day after.” 

Dear old Jim,” said Cicely—she was at work 
‘.n some embroidery for Muriel. “ It will be jolly 
to ^ee him back again. But it doesn’t seem like a 
year since he went away.” 

“ You don’t seem to have missed him much.” 

“ O yes, I have. But it was like when the boys 
went back to school or to Cambridge—frightfully 
dull at first, and then you got used to it, and they 
were back before you knew where you were.” 

“ Yes, I know. But I don’t feel like that about 
Walter now. I don’t know what I should do if he 
were to go off for a year.” 

“ Oh, that’s quite different. You are deeply in 
love, my dear.” 

“ So were you once.” 

“ Never in the world, Muriel, and you know that 
quite well. I was a little donkey. I had only just 
put my hair up and I thought it a fine thing to be 
engaged. Not that that lasted long. Dear old Jim 
soon repented, and I don’t blame him.” 


90 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Jim is pretty close about things, but I sometimes 
doubt whether he has repented.” 

“You mean that he still cherishes a tender passion 
for sweet Cicely Clinton.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder.” 

“ Well, I should. Anyway, it isn’t returned. I 
love Jim, but if I heard that he had come home 
engaged, as I dare say he will, I shouldn’t mind in 
the very least. I should be the first to congratulate 
him.” 

“ No, you wouldn’t. He would tell mother ^nd 
me first. And you needn’t give yourself airs, jau 
know. Jim would be a very good match for ; uu. 
You would be mistress of Mountfield. I’m not 
making half such a brilliant alliance.” 

“ Brilliant! I’m quite sure you would rather be 
going to marry somebody who had his way to make, 
like Walter, than trickle off from one big, dull coun¬ 
try house to another. Wouldn’t you, now.? ” 

“ Well, yes, I would. But it wouldn’t make any 
difference to me, really, if I had Walter. If Dick 
were to die, which I’m sure I hope he won’t, and 
Walter were to succeed to Kencote, I should like it 
just as much.” 

“ Well, I dare say it would be all right when one 
got older. At present I think it would be burying 
yourself alive when you ought to have the chance of 
doing something and seeing something. No, Muriel, 
dear. I have been a squire’s daughter all my life, 
and there’s no money in it, as Humphrey says. The 


A GOOD LONG TALK 


91 


last thing I want to be at present is a squire’s wife. 
I believe Jim has forgotten all that silliness as much 
as I have. If I thought he hadn’t, I shouldn’t be so 
glad as I am at the prospect of seeing him back.” 

“ I dare say he has. You’re not good enough for 
him.” 

“ And he isn’t good enough for me. I must be 
going home, or father will accuse me of over-driving 
Kitty. I always do over-drive her, but he doesn’t 
notice unless I am late. Good-bye, Muriel. It has 
done me good to talk to you.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE RECTOR 

The Rector was shown into the library where the 
Squire was reading the Times, for which a groom 
rode over to Bathgate every morning at eleven 
o’clock, and woe betide him if he ever came back 
later than half-past twelve. It was a big room lined 
with books behind a brass lattice which nobody ever 
opened. Though the Squire used it every day, and 
had used it for five-and-thirty years, he had never 
altered its appointments, and his grandfather had 
not lived in it. Merchant Jack had furnished it 
handsomely for a library, and the Reverend John 
Clinton Smith, the historian of Kencote, had bought 
the books for him, and read most of them for him 
too. If he had returned from the tomb in which he 
had lain for a hundred years to this room where 
he had spent some of the happiest hours of his life, 
he would only have had to clear out a boxful or two 
of papers from the cupboards under the bookshelves 
and the drawers of the writing-tables, and remove a 
few photographs and personal knick-knacks, and 
there would have been nothing there that was not 
familiar, except the works of Surtees and a few score 
other books, which he would have taken up with inter¬ 
est and laid down again with contempt, in some new 
93 


THE RECTOR 


93 


shelves by the fireplace. The Squire had no skill with 
a room. He hated any alteration in his house, and 
he had debated this question of a new bookcase to 
hold the few books he did read from time to time 
with as much care as the Reverend John Clinton 
Smith, book-lover as he was, had devoted to the 
housing of the whole library. 

“ Ah, my dear Tom,” said the Squire heartily, 
“ I’m glad you came up. I should have come down 
to you, but I’ve been so busy all the morning that 
I thought you wouldn’t mind a summons. Have 
you brought Grace.? ” 

“ She is with Nina,” said the Rector, and sat 
heavily down in the easy-chair opposite to that from 
which the Squire had risen. He was a big man, 
with a big face, clean shaven except for a pair of 
abbreviated side whiskers. He had light-blue eyes and 
a mobile, sensitive mouth. His clothes were rather 
shabby, and except for a white tie under a turned- 
down collar, not clerical. His voice, coming from so 
massive a frame, seemed thin, but it was of a pleasant 
tenor quality, and went well with the mild and at¬ 
tractive expression of his face. All the parishioners 
of Kencote liked the Rector, though he was not at all 
diligent in visiting them. Perhaps they liked him the 
better on that account. 

The Rector was the Squire’s half-brother. Colonel 
Thomas Clinton, the Squire’s grandfather, had fol¬ 
lowed, amongst other traditions of his family, that of 
marrying early, and marrying money. His wife was a 


the SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


city lady, daughter of Alderman Sir James Banket, 
and brought him forty thousand pounds. Besides his 
six daughters, he had one son, who was delicate and 
could not support the fatigue of his own arduous 
pursuit of sport. He was sent to Eton and to Trin¬ 
ity College, and a cornetcy was bought for him in 
the Grenadier Guards. He also married early, and 
married, following an alternative tradition, not 
money, but blood. His wife was a sister of a brother 
officer, the Marquis of Nottingham, and they were 
happy together for a year. He died of a low fever 
immediately after the birth of his son, Edward, that 
Squire of Kencote with whom we have to do. 

Colonel Thomas took a great deal more pride in 
his sturdy grandson than ever he had been able to 
take in his weakly son. He taught him to ride and 
to shoot, and to tyrannise over his six maiden aunts, 
who all took a hand in bringing him up. His own 
placid, uncomplaining wife had died years before, and 
Lady Susan Clinton, tired of living in a house where 
women seemed to exist on sufferance, had married 
again, but had not been allowed to take her child to 
her new home. She had the legal right to do so, of 
course, but was far too frightened of the weather¬ 
beaten, keen-eyed old man, who could say such cut¬ 
ting things with such a sweet smile upon his lips, to 
insist upon it. Her second husband was the Rector 
of a neighbouring parish, who grew hot to the end 
of his days when he thought of what he had under¬ 
gone to gain possession of his bride. He did not 


THE RECTOR 


95 


keep her long, for she died a year later in giving 
him a son. That son was now the Reverend Thomas 
Beach, Rector of Kencote, to which preferment the 
Squire had appointed him nearly thirty years before, 
when he was only just of canonical age to receive it. 
And in the comfortable Rectory of Kencote, except 
for a year’s curacy to his father, he had lived all 
his clerical life. 

The Squire and the Rector were not altogether 
unlike in appearance. They were both tall and 
well covered with flesh, and there was a family re¬ 
semblance in their features. But the Squire’s bigness 
and ruddiness were those of a man who took much 
exercise in the open air, the Rector’s of a man phys¬ 
ically indolent, who lived too much indoors, and lived 
too well. 

But if they were not unlike in appearance, they 
were as dissimilar as possible in character. The 
Squire’s well-carried, massive frame betokened a man 
who considered himself to have a right to hold his 
head high and plant his footsteps firmly; the Rector’s 
big body disguised a sensitive, timorous character, 
and a soul never quite at ease in its comfortable 
surroundings. That ponderous weight of soft flesh, 
insistent on warmth and good food and much rest, 
had a deal to answer for. Spare and active, with 
adventures of the spirit not discouraged by the in¬ 
dolence of the flesh, the Rector of Kencote might have 
been anything in the way of a saint that his Church 
encourages. He would certainly not have been Rec- 


96 the SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


tor of Kencote for thirty years, with the prospect 
of being Rector of Kencote for thirty years more if 
he lived so long. He had a simple, lovable soul. 
It told him that he did nothing to speak of in return 
for his good income and the fine house in which he 
lived in such comfort, and troubled him on this score 
more than it would have troubled a man with less 
aptitude for goodness; and it omitted to tell him 
that he had more direct influence for righteousness 
than many a man who would have consciously exer¬ 
cised all the gifts with which he might have been 
endowed. He simply could not bring himself to visit 
his parish regularly, two or three afternoons a week, 
as he had made up his mind to do when he was first 
ordained. The afternoons always slipped away some¬ 
how, and there were so many of them. The next 
would always do. So it had been for the first years 
of his pastorate, and he had long since given way 
altogether to his indolence and shyness in respect 
of visiting his flock; but his conscience still troubled 
him about it. He was a great reader, but his reading 
had become quite desultory, and he now read only for 
his own entertainment. His sermons were poor; he 
had no delivery and no gift of expression; he could 
not even give utterance to the ideas that did, not 
infrequently, act on his brain, nor hardly to the 
human tenderness which was his normal attitude to¬ 
wards mankind. But he did go on writing fresh 
ones, stilted and commonplace as they were. Mental 
activity was less of a burden to him than bodily 


THE RECTOR 


97 


activity, and he had kept himself up to that part of 
what he thought to be his clerical duty. 

For the rest, he was fond of his books and his 
garden, fond of his opulent, well-appointed house, 
and all that it contained, and fond of the smaller 
distractions of a country life, but no sportsman. 
He had no children, but a graceful, very feminine 
wife, who reacted pleasantly on his intellect and 
looked well after the needs of his body. He some¬ 
times went to London for a week or two, and had 
been to Paris; but he liked best to be at home. He 
watched the progress of the seasons with interest, 
and knew something about birds, something about 
flowers and trees, was a little of a weather prophet, 
and often thought he would study some branch of 
natural science, but had lacked the energy to do so. 
He liked the winter as well as the summer, for then 
his warm house called him more seductively. He 
liked to tramp home along muddy country roads 
in the gloaming, drink tea in his wife’s pretty 
drawing-room, chat to her a little, and then go into 
his cosy, book-lined study and read till dinner-time. 
He would have been a happy man as a layman, 
relieved of that gnawing conviction that his placid, 
easy life was rather far from being apostolic. And 
nobody, not even his wife, had any idea that he 
was not quite contented, and grateful for the good 
things that he enjoyed. 

‘‘ Well, Tom,” said the Squire, “ I’m infemally 
worried again. It’s that boy Walter. What do 


98 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


you think he wants to do now ? ” He spoke with 
none of the heat of the morning. It might have 
been thought that he had already accepted the 
inevitable and was prepared to make the best of it. 

“ I don’t know, Edward,” said the Rector; and 
the Squire told him. 

“ And you have a particular objection to this 
place, Melbury Park.?” inquired the Rector guile¬ 
lessly. 

“ O my dear Tom,” said the Squire impatiently, 
“ have you ever seen the place.? ” 

“ From the railway only,” admitted the Rector; 
“ and chiefly its back-gardens. It left an impres¬ 
sion of washing on my mind.” 

“ It left an impression of not washing on mine,” 
said the Squire, ajid leant back in his chair to laugh 
heartily at his witticism. 

The Rector also did justice to it, perhaps more 
than justice, with a kind smile. “ Well, Edward,” 
he said, ‘‘ it may be so, but it is, otherwise, I should 
say, respectable. It is not like a slum. Has Walter 
any particular reason for wishing to go there.? ” 

The Squire gave a grudging summary of the rea¬ 
sons Walter had advanced for wishing to go there, 
and made them appear rather ridiculous reasons. 
He also produced again such of the arguments he 
had advanced at breakfast-time as seemed most 
weighty, and managed to work himself up into a fair 
return of his morning’s feeling of being very badly 
treated. 


THE RECTOR 


99 


“ Well, Edward,” said the Rector gently, when he 
had come to an end, “ I think if I were you I should 
not make any objections to Walter’s going to Mel- 
bury Park.” 

“You wouldn’t?” asked the Squire, rather 
weakly. 

“No, I don’t think I would. You see, my dear 
Edward, some of us are inclined to take life too 
easily. I’m sometimes afraid that I do myself.” 

“ You do your duty, Tom. Nobody is asked to 
do more than that.” 

“ Well, you may be right, but I am not sure. 
However, what I was going to say was that one 
cannot help respecting—perhaps even envying—a 
young fellow like Walter who doesn’t want to take 
life easily.” 

“ He has stuck to his work,” said the Squire. “ I 
will say that for the boy; and he’s never come to 
me for money to pay bills with, as Humphrey has, 
and even Dick—though, as far as Dick goes, he’ll 
have the property some day, and I don’t grudge 
him what he wants now within reason.” 

“ You see, Edward, when a man has congenial 
work which takes up his time, he is not apt to get 
into mischief. I think, if I may, say so, that you 
ought to admit now, however much you may have 
objected to Walter’s choice of a profession in the 
first instance, that he has justified his choice. He 
put his hand to the plough and he has not looked 
back. That is a good deal to say for a young man 


100 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


with Walter’s temptations towards an easy, perhaps 
idle, life.” 

“Well,” said the Squire, “I do admit it. I do 
admit it, Tom. I have my natural prejudices, but 
I’m the last man in the world that any one has a 
right to call obstinate. I objected to Walter becom¬ 
ing a doctor in the first instance. It was natural that 
I should. He ought to have succeeded you, as Dick 
will succeed me. And none of our family have ever 
been doctors. But I gave way, and I’ve every wish, 
now, that he should succeed in his profession. And 
the reason I object to this move so strongly is that 
as far as my judgment goes it is not a step in the 
right direction. It might be so for the ordinary 
doctor—I don’t know and I can’t say—but I’m will¬ 
ing to help a son of mine over some of the drudgery, 
and it will be very disagreeable for me to have Walter 
settling down to married life in a place like Melbury 
Park, when he might do so much better. You must 
remember, Tom, that he is the first of the boys to 
get married. Dick will marry some day soon, I hope 
and trust, and Humphrey too, but until they do, 
Walter’s son, if he has one, will be heir to this prop¬ 
erty, eventually. He ought not to be brought up in 
a place like Melbury Park.” 

“ There is a good deal in what you say, Edward,” 
replied the Rector, who privately thought that there 
was very little; “ but the contingency you mention is 
a very unlikely one.” 

“ I don’t lay too much stress on it. If I thought 


THE RECTOR 


101 


that Walter was right from the point of rising in his 
profession to go to this place I would leave all that 
out of the question.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you what, Edward,” said the Rec¬ 
tor, with an engaging smile, “ supposing you keep an 
open mind on the question until you have heard what 
Walter has to say about it. How would that be.^^ ” 

The Squire hummed and ha’d, and thought that on 
the whole it might be the best thing to do. 

“ You see,” said the Rector in pursuance of his 
bright idea, “ it is just possible that there may be 
reasons which Walter has considered, and may wish 
to urge, that might make it advisable for him, even 
with the exceptional advantages you could give him, 
to go through the training afforded by just such a 
practice as this. I should let him urge them, Ed¬ 
ward, if I were you. I should let him urge them. 
You can but repeat your objections, if they do not 
appeal to your judgment. You will be in a better 
position to make your own views tell, if you dispose 
your mind to listen to his. I should take a kindly 
tone, I think, if I were you. You don’t want to set 
the boy against you.” 

“ No, I don’t want that,” said the Squire. “ And 
I should have done what you advise, in any case. 
It’s the only way, of course. Let us go in and have 
some luncheon. Then you don’t think, Tom, that 
there would be any serious objection to my giving 
way on this point, if Walter is reasonable about it? ” 
Well, Edward, do you know, I really don’t think 


102 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


there would,” replied the Rector, as they crossed the 
hall to the dining-room. 

The ladies were already there. Mrs. Beach was 
by the window talking to the twins, who adored her. 
She was getting on for fifty, but she was still a pretty 
woman, and moved gracefully as she came across 
the room to shake hands with her brother-in-law. 
‘‘ It is very nice to see you back again, Edward,” she 
said, with a charming smile. “ You do not look as 
if London had disagreed with you.” 

“ My dear Grace,” said the Squire, holding her 
white, well-formed hand in his big one. “ I’ll tell 
you my private opinion of London, only don’t let it 
go any further. It can’t hold a candle to Kencote.” 
Then he gave a hearty laugh, and motioned her to a 
seat on his right. The twins cast a look of intelli¬ 
gence at one another, and Cicely glanced at her 
mother. The Squire had recovered his good humour. 

“For these an’ all his mercies,” mumbled the 
Squire, bending his head.—“ Oh, beg your pardon, 
Tom,” and the Rector said grace. 

“ Have you heard what that silly fellow Walter 
wants to do, Grace ? ” asked the Squire. 

“ Nothing except that he hopes to get married 
next month,” replied Mrs. Beach, helping herself to 
an omelette, “ and I hope that he will make a better 
husband than Tom.” 

The Rector, already busy, spared her a glance of 
appreciation, and the twins giggled at the humour of 
their favourite. 


THE RECTOR 


103 


“ Yes, he is going to be married, and he proposes 
to take Muriel to live at Melburj Park, of all places 
in the world.” 

“ Then in that case,” replied Mrs. Beach equably, 
“ Tom and I will not give them the grand piano we 
had fixed upon for a wedding present. They must 
content themselves with the railway whistles.” 

The twins laughed outright and were ineffectively 
rebuked by Miss Bird. That they were to be seen 
and not heard at table was a maxim she had dili¬ 
gently instilled into them. But they were quite 
right to laugh. Aunt Grace was surpassing herself. 
She always kept the Squire in a good humour, by 
her ready little jokes and the well-disguised deference 
she paid him. The deference was not offered to 
him alone, but to all men with whom she came in 
contact, even her husband, and men liked her 
immensely. She teased them boldly, but she deferred 
to their manhood. Women sometimes grew tired of 
her sweetness of manner, which was displayed to them 
too, and quite naturally. She was a sweet woman, 
if also, in spite of her ready tongue, rather a shallow 
one. Mrs. Clinton did not like her, but did not 
show it, except in withholding her confidence, and 
Mrs. Beach had no idea that they were not intimate. 
Cicely was indifferent towards her, but had loved her 
as a child, for the same reason that the twins thought 
her the most charming of womankind, because she 
treated them as if they were her equals in intelligence, 
as no doubt they were. It had never occurred to them 


104 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


to mimic her, which was a feather in her cap if she 
had known it. And another was that Miss Bird 
adored her, being made welcome in her house, and, 
as she said, treated like anybody else. 

By the time luncheon was over the Squire had so 
overcome his bitter resentment at the idea of Walter’s 
going to live at Melbury Park, that he could afford 
to joke about it. Aunt Grace had suggested that 
they should all go and live there, and had so amused 
the Squire with a picture of himself coming home 
to his villa in the evening and eating his dinner in 
the kitchen in his shirt sleeves, with carpet slippers 
on his feet, which was possibly the picture in her 
mind of “ how the poor live,” that he was in the best 
of humours, and drank two more glasses of port 
than his slightly gouty tendency usually permitted. 

The twins persuaded Miss Bird to take them to 
the station to meet Walter in the afternoon. They 
were not allowed to go outside the park by them¬ 
selves, and walked down the village on either side 
of the old starling, each of them over-topping her 
by half a head, like good girls, as she said herself. 
They wore cool white dresses, and shady hats 
trimmed with poppies, and looked a picture. When 
they reached the by-road to the station, Joan said, 
“ One, two, three, and away,” and they shot like 
darts from the side of their instructress, arriving 
on the platform flushed and laughing, not at all like 
good girls, while Miss Bird panted in their rear, 
clucking threats and remonstrances, to the respect- 


THE RECTOR 


105 


ful but undisguised amusement of the porter, and 
the groom who had preceded them with the dog-cart. 

Walter got out of a third-class carriage when the 
train drew up and said, ‘‘ Hullo, twanky-diddleses! 
Oh, my adorable Sturna vulgaris veins, embrace me! 
Come to my arms! ” 

“ Now, Walter, do behave,” said Miss Bird sharply. 
“ What will people think and Joan ’n Nancy I shall 
certainly tell Mrs. Clinton of your disgraceful be¬ 
haviour I am quite ashamed of you running off like 
that which you know you are not allowed to do 
you are very naughty girls and I am seriously dis¬ 
pleased with you.” 

“ Ellen Bird,” said Walter, “ don’t try and put it 
on to the twankies. I looked out of the carriage 
window and saw you sprinting along the station 
road yourself. You have had a little race and are 
annoyed at being beaten. I shall put you up in the 
cart and send you home, and I will walk back with 
the twankies.” And in spite of Miss Bird’s almost 
frenzied remonstrances, up into the cart she was 
helped, and driven off at a smart pace, with cheers 
from the twins, now entirely beyond her control. 

“ Well, twanky dears,” said Walter, starting off 
at a smart pace with a twin on either side, “ I sup¬ 
pose there’s a deuce of a bust up, eh.?^ Look here, 
you can’t hang on. It’s too hot.” 

“ It wouldn’t be too hot for Muriel to hang on,” 
said Joan, her arm having been returned to her. 

‘‘ There was a bust up this morning at breakfast,” 


106 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


said Nancy. “ Edward came in purple with passion 
two minutes late for prayers.” 

“Eh.J^” said Walter sharply. “Look here, you 
mustn’t speak of the governor like that.” 

“ It’s only her new trick,” said Joan. “ She’ll 
get tired of it.” 

“ You’re not to do it, Nancy, do you hear.? ” said 
Walter. 

“ Oh, all right,” said Nancy. “ Mr. Clinton of 
Kencote, J.P., D.L., was so put out that he wouldn’t 
kneel down to say his prayers.” 

“ Annoyed, eh.? ” said Walter. 

“ Yes,” said Joan, “ but he’s all right now, Walter. 
Aunt Grace came to lunch, and beat Bogey.” 

“ What!” 

“ It’s only her new trick,” said Nancy. “ She’ll 
get tired of it. She means put him in a good 
humour.” 

“ Really, you twankies do pick up some language. 
Then there’s nothing much to fear, what.? ” 

“ No, we are all coming to live at Melbury Park, 
and Aunt Grace is going to take in our washing.” 

“ Oh, that’s the line taken, is it.? ” said Walter. 
“ Well, I dare say it’s all very funny, but I can’t 
have you twankies giving yourselves airs, you know. 
I don’t know why they talk over things before you. 
The governor might have kept it to himself until 
he had seen me.” 

“ Mr. Clinton doesn’t keep things to himself,” said 
Nancy. “You might know that by this time; and 


THE RECTOR 


107 


Joan and I are quite old enough to take an intelligent 
interest in family affairs. We do take the deepest 
interest in them, and we know a lot. Little pitchers 
have long ears, you know.” 

“ So have donkeys, and they get them pinched if 
they’re not careful,” retorted Walter. “ How are 
you getting on with your lessons, twankies ? ” 

‘‘ I believe our progress is quite satisfactory, thank 
you. Dr. Clinton,” replied Joan. “ Perhaps you 
would like to hear us a few dates, so that our after¬ 
noon walk may not pass entirely unimproved.” 

“You had much hotter look at Joan’s tongue,” 
said Nancy. “ Starling said last night that her 
stomach was a little out of order, and we rebuked 
her for her vulgarity.” 

“ You are a record pair, you two,” said Walter, 
looking at them with unwilling admiration. “ I don’t 
believe any of us led that poor old woman the dance 
that you do. Do you want some jumbles, twankies.^ ” 
“ Ra-^/i^r,” said the twins with one voice, and they 
turned into the village shop. 

The tea-table was spread on the lawn, and the 
Squire came out of the window of the library as 
Walter reached the garden. “ Well, my boy,” he 
said, “ so you’re going to settle down at Melbury 
Park, are you.^ That’s a nice sort of thing to 
spring on us ; but good luck to you! You can always 
come down here when you want a holiday.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


BY THE LAKE 

Whitsuntide that year fell early in June, and the 
weather was glorious. Cicely awoke on Friday morn¬ 
ing with a sense of happiness. She slept with her 
blinds up, and both her windows were wide open. She 
could see from her pillow a great red mass of peonies 
backed by dark shrubs across the lawn, and in an¬ 
other part of the garden laburnums and lilacs and 
flowering thorns, and all variations of young green 
from trees and grass under a sky of light blue. 
Thrushes and blackbirds were piping sweetly. She 
loved these fresh mornings of early summer, and had 
often wakened to them with that slight palpitation of 
happiness. 

But, when she was fully awake, it had generally 
happened that the pleasure had rather faded, at 
any rate of late years, since she had grown up. In 
her childhood it had been enough to have the long 
summer day in front of her, especially in holiday 
time, when there would be no irksome schoolroom 
restraint, nothing but the pleasures and adventures 
of the open air. But lately she had needed more, 
and more, at Kencote, had seldom been forthcoming. 
Moreover she had hardly known what the “ more ” 
was that she had wanted. She had never been un- 


108 


BY THE LAKE 


109 


happy, but only vaguely dissatisfied, and sometimes 
bored. 

This morning her waking sense of well-being did 
not fade as she came to full consciousness, but 
started into full pleasure as she remembered that 
her cousins, Angela and Beatrice Birket, with their 
father and mother, were in the house. And Dick 
and Humphrey had come down with them the even¬ 
ing before. Guests were so rare at Kencote that to 
have a party of them was a most pleasurable excite¬ 
ment. Dick and Humphrey would see that there was 
plenty of amusement provided, quiet enough amuse¬ 
ment for them, no doubt, but for Cicely high pleas¬ 
ure, with something to do all the day long, and people 
whom she liked to do it with. 

And—oh yes—Jim had returned home from his 
travels the day before, and would be sure to come 
over, probably early in the morning. 

She jumped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, 
and went to the window. The clock from the stable 
turret struck six, but she really could not lie in bed 
on such a morning as this, with so much about to 
happen. She would dress and go out into the gar¬ 
den. A still happier thought—she would go down 
to the lake and bathe from the Temple of Melancholy. 
It was early in the year, but the weather had been 
so warm for the last month that it was not too early 
to begin that summer habit. Perhaps the twins would 
come with her. They were early risers. 

She was just about to turn away from the window 


110 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 

when she saw the twins themselves steal round the 
corner of the house. Their movements were mys¬ 
terious. Although there was nobody about, they 
trod on tiptoe across the broad gravel path and on 
to the dewy lawn. Joan—she could always tell them 
apart, although to the outside world they were identi¬ 
cal in form and feature—carried a basket which 
probably contained provisions, a plentiful supply 
of which was generally included in the elaborate ar¬ 
rangements the twins made for their various games of 
adventure. There was nothing odd in this, but what 
was rather odd was that she also held a long rope, 
the other end of which was tied around Nancy’s 
neck, while Nancy’s hands were knotted behind her. 

When they got on to the grass they both turned 
at the same moment to glance up at the windows 
of the house, and caught sight of Cicely, who then 
perceived that Joan’s features were hidden by a 
mask of black velvet. She saw them draw together 
and take counsel, and then, without speaking, beckon 
her insistently to join them. She nodded her head 
and went back into the room, smiling to herself, while 
the twins pursued their mysterious course towards the 
shrubberies. She thought she would not bathe after 
all; but she dressed quickly and went down into the 
garden, a little curious to learn what new invention 
the children were busying themselves with. 

It proved to be nothing more original than the 
old game of buccaneers. Nancy had awakened to find 
herself neatly trussed to her bed and Joan in an 


BY THE LAKE 


111 


unfinished state of attire, but wearing the black vel¬ 
vet mask, brandishing in her face a horse pistol, 
annexed from the collection of old-fashioned weapons 
in the hall. Thus overpowered she had succumbed 
philosophically. It was the fortune of war, and if 
she had thought of it she might just as well have 
been kneeling on Joan’s chest, as Joan was kneeling, 
somewhat oppressively, on hers. Given her choice of 
walking the plank from the punt on the lake or being 
marooned on the rhododendron island, she had ac¬ 
cepted the latter alternative, stipulating for an ade¬ 
quate supply of food; and a truce having been called, 
while pirate and victim made their toilets and raided 
together for the necessary rations, she had then al¬ 
lowed herself to be bound and led off to the shore 
where the pirate ship was beached. 

All this was explained to Cicely—the search for 
provisions having no particular stress laid on it— 
when she joined them, and she was awarded the part 
of the unhappy victim’s wife, who was to gaze across 
the water and tear her hair in despair at being unable 
to go to the rescue. 

‘‘You must rend the air with your cries,” Joan 
instructed her, “ not too loud, because we don’t want 
any one to hear. The pirate king will then appear 
on the scene, and stalking silently up behind you— 
well, you’ll see. I won’t hurt you.” 

Nancy was already comfortably marooned. She 
could be seen relieved of her bonds seated amongst 
the rhododendrons, which were in full flower on the 


112 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


island and all round the lake, making her first soli¬ 
tary meal off cold salmon and a macedoine of fruit, 
and supporting her painful situation with for¬ 
titude. 

Cicely accepted her role, but dispensed with the 
business of tearing her hair. “ O my husband! ” 
she cried, stretching her arms across the water. 
“ Shall I never see thee more ? What foul ruffian 
has treated thee thus ? ” 

Very good,” said Nancy, with her mouth full— 
she was only twenty yards away—“ keep it up. Sis.” 

“ I will not rest until I have discovered the mis¬ 
creant and taken his life,” proceeded Cicely. 

“ Shed his blood,” corrected Nancy. “ Say some¬ 
thing about my bones bleaching on the shore.” 

“ Thy bones will bleach on the shore,” Cicely 
obeyed. “ And I, a disconsolate widow, will wander 
up and down this cruel strand—oh, don’t, Joan, you 
are hurting.” 

For she found herself in the grip of the pirate 
king, who hissed in her ear, “ Ha, ha, fair damsel! 
Thou art mine at last. ’Twas for love of thee I 
committed this deed. Thy lily-livered husband lies 
at my mercy, and once in Davy Jones’s locker will 
be out of my path. Then the wedding bells shall ring 
and we will sail together over the bounding main. 
Gently, gently, pretty dove! Do not struggle. I 
will not hurt thee.” 

‘‘ Unhand me, miscreant,” cried Cicely. “ Think 
you that I would forget my brave and gallant hus- 


BY THE LAKE 


113 


band for such as thou, steeped in crime from head to 
foot? Unhand me, I say. Help! Help!” 

“ Peace, pretty one! ” cooed the pirate king. 
“ Thou art in my power and thy cries do not daunt 
me. I have only to lift my voice and my brave 
crew will be all around me. Better come with me 
quietly. There is a cabin prepared for thee in my 
gallant barque. None shall molest thee. Cease strug¬ 
gling and come with me.” 

Urged towards the shore by the pirate king. 
Cicely redoubled her cries for assistance, but no one 
was more surprised than she to see an elderly gentle¬ 
man in a grey flannel suit and a straw hat bound 
from behind the bushes, level a latch-key at the 
head of the masked bandit, and cry, “ Loose her, 
perjured villain, or thy brains shall strew the sand.” 

Nancy’s clear, delighted laugh came from the 
island, Joan giggled and said, “ O Uncle Herbert! ” 

“ Uncle me no Herberts,” said Mr. Birket. “ Put 
up your hands or I shoot. (Cicely, if you will kindly 
swoon in my arms—Thank you.) Know, base buc¬ 
caneer, that I represent his Britannic Majesty on 
these seas, and wherever the British flag flies there is 
liberty. Allow me to disarm you of your weapon.” 

“ I yield to superior force,” said the bold buccaneer 
in stately tones. 

“ Very wise of you. I should fold my arms and 
scowl if I were you. Behold, the lady cometh to. 
She is, yes she is, the daughter I have mourned these 
many years. And you, base marauder, though you 


114 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


know it not, are the long-lost brother of that luckless 
wight starving, if I mistake not, to death on the 
island. Well for you that your hands are not im¬ 
brued in his gore. Put off at once in your stout 
ship—and be careful not to tumble overboard—and 
restore him to his hapless bride.” 

“ I will obey your bidding,” said the pirate king 
proudly. “ The claims of relationship are para¬ 
mount.” 

“ Well put. I have hopes of you yet. I am also 
hungry. Bring back the victim’s basket, and we 
wdll eat together and forget this unfortunate occur¬ 
rence.” 

Joan punted across to the island and the marooned 
Nancy was brought to the mainland with her some¬ 
what depleted store of provisions. Mr. Birket dropped 
his role while the embarkation proceeded, and mopped 
his brow with a bandana handkerchief. He was a 
short, grey-haired man with a keen lawyer’s face. 
“ Well, my dear,” he said to Cicely, “ I think that 
went off very well, but it is somewhat exhaust¬ 
ing.” 

Cicely laughed. ‘‘ The twins will never forget it,” 
she said. ‘‘ Did you see them come out? ” 

“ I saw them come on to the lake. I was in the 
Temple, getting through a little work.” 

“ What ever time did you get up ? ” 

“ Oh, half-past five. My regular hour in the 
summer. I’m kept pretty busy, my dear. But I 
don’t generally have such a charming place as this 


BY THE LAKE 


115 


to work in. Now then, pirate, hurry up with those 
victuals. Your uncle is hungry.” 

They picnicked on the shore—the twins’ provision¬ 
ing having fortunately been ample—and Mr. Birket 
proved himself an agreeable companion. Joan said 
to Nancy afterwards that the practice of the law 
seemed to brighten people’s brains wonderfully. He 
smoked a cigar, told them stories, and made them 
laugh. At half-past eight he fetched his papers 
from the Temple and they went indoors to get ready 
for breakfast. “ I think,” he said, as they crossed 
the lawn, “ we had better say nothing about the 
startling occurrences of the morning. They might 
come as a shock to our elders and betters.” And 
Joan and Nancy, remembering the contents of the 
basket and the source from which they had been 
derived, agreed. 

Herbert Birket was Mrs. Clinton’s only brother. 
Their father had been a Colonel in the Indian Army, 
and had retired to end his days in a little house on 
the outskirts of Bathgate, desiring nothing more 
than to read the Times through every morning and 
find something in it to disagree with, walk so many 
miles a day, see his son well started in the profession 
he had chosen, and his daughter well, but not splen¬ 
didly, married. He had gained his desires in all but 
the last item. The young Squire of Kencote, in all 
the glory of his wide inheritance and his lieutenancy 
in the Household Cavalry, had ridden past the little 
house on his way to Bathgate and seen a quiet, un- 


116 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


assuming, fair-haired girl watering her flowers in 
the garden, had fallen in love with her, met her at 
a county ball, fallen still more deeply in love, and 
finally carried her off impetuously from the double- 
fronted villa in the Bathgate Road to rule over his 
great house at Kencote. 

South Meadshire had rung with the romance, and 
old Colonel Birket had not been altogether delighted 
with his daughter’s good fortune, wishing to spend 
his last days in peace and not in glory. The wedding 
had taken place in London, with a respectable show 
of relations on the bride’s side and all the accompani¬ 
ments of semi-military parade on the bridegroom’s. 
There was no talk of a misalliance on the part of his 
friends, nor was there a misalliance, for the Birkets 
were good enough people; but the young Squire’s 
six maiden aunts had returned to the dower-house 
at Kencote after the wedding and shaken their re¬ 
spective heads. No good would come of it, they 
said, and had, perhaps, been a little disappointed 
ever afterwards that no harm had come of it, at any 
rate to their nephew. 

The old Colonel had long since been laid in his 
grave, and the little house in the Bathgate Road, 
now in the respectable occupancy of a retired drug¬ 
gist, would have seemed as strange a dwelling-place 
to the daughters of Herbert Birket, who had pros¬ 
pered exceedingly, as to the children of Mrs. Clinton 
of Kencote. 

Angela and Beatrice Birket were handsome girls, 


BY THE LAKE 


in 


both of them younger than Cicely, but wTh their 
assured manners and knowledge of the world, looking 
older. They had been brought up strictly by their 
mother, who had paid great attention to their educa¬ 
tion. They might have been seen during their child¬ 
hood on any reasonably fine afternoon walking in 
Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park with a highly 
priced French governess, two well, but plainly 
dressed children with long, straight hair and com¬ 
posed faces. They never appeared in their mother’s 
drawing-room when visitors were there, being em¬ 
ployed in a room upstairs either at lessons, or con¬ 
suming the plainest variety of schoolroom tea. They 
were taken sometimes to an afternoon concert, and 
on very rare occasions to a play. When they were 
at home in London, their days were given to their 
lessons, with the requisite amount of regular exercise 
to keep them in good health. In holiday time, in the 
summer, at Christmas and at Easter, they were al¬ 
lowed to run quite wild, in old clothes at some out- 
of-the-way seaside place, in country farmhouses, 
where they scrambled about on ponies and amongst 
ducks and chickens, or in the country houses of their 
friends and relations, where there were other chil¬ 
dren of their age for them to play with. So they had 
loved the country and hated London, and had never 
been so surprised in their lives as when they were duly 
presented and launched in society to find that London 
was the most amusing place in the world and that all 
the pains and drudgery to which they had been put 


118 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


there had prepared them for the enjoyment of the 
manifold interests and pleasures that came in their 
way. They had developed quickly, and those who 
had known them in their rather subdued childhood 
would hardly have known them now. 

Of all the places in which they had spent their 
holidays in days gone by they had liked Kencote 
best. It had been a paradise of fun and freedom 
for them; they and Cicely had been happy from 
morning till night. The elder boys home from school 
or college had been kind to them, and Frank, the 
sailor, who was about their own age, and not too 
proud to make a companion of his sister and cousins, 
had led the way in all their happy adventures. And 
they had loved the twins, whom they had seen grow 
up from babyhood. No, there had been no place like 
Kencote in the old days, and the pleasure of a visit 
there still persisted, although it was no longer the 
most congenial house at which they visited. 

All the party assembled for prayers in the dining¬ 
room. That was understood to be the rule. The 
twins were there, very clean and well brushed and 
very demure. Mr. Birket wished them good-morning 
solemnly and hoped that they had slept well, at which 
they giggled and were rebuked by Miss Bird, when 
their uncle turned away to ask the same question of 
Cicely. As Miss Bird said,—^What would their uncle 
think of them if they could not answer a civil question 
without behaving in that silly fashion? At which 
they giggled again. Angela and Beatrice, tall and 


BY THE LAKE 


119 


glossy-haired, dressed in white, made a handsome 
quartet with Dick and Humphrey, the one in smart 
grey flannel, the other in white. 

‘‘ This little rest will do you both good,” said Dick. 
“ You shall lie about, and Miss Bird shall read to 
you. You will go back to the excitements of the 
metropolis thoroughly refreshed.” 

“ Oh, we are going to be very energetic,” said 
Angela. “We want to play lawn tennis, for one 
thing. One never gets a chance nowadays, and we 
both hate croquet.” 

“ We’ll get up a tournament,” said Humphrey, 
“ and invite the neighbourhood. You’ll see some queer 
specimens. I hear you’re writing a book, Trixie.” 

Beatrice laughed, and blushed a little. “ I’ve left 
oflf,” she said. 

“ Ah, I’ve heard stories about you,” said Dick. 
“ Soon have something else to do, eh? Don’t blush. 
I won’t tell anybody. Look here, we’ll play golf 
this morning. We laid out quite a decent little 
course in the park last autumn. And in the after¬ 
noon we’ll have a picnic.” 

“ Oh, preserve us! ” said Humphrey. 

“ Oh, do let us have a picnic,” said Angela. 

“ It will be like old times,” said Beatrice. 

“ We’ll go to Blackborough Castle,” said Dick, 
“ and take the twankies. We must give them a little 
fun. Siskin, how about a picnic.? ” 

Mrs. Birket was telling Mrs. Clinton that Bea¬ 
trice’s engagement would be announced when they 


120 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


returned to London. ‘‘ She is young,” she said, “ but 
both the girls are older in mind than in age.” 

“ You have educated them well,” Mrs. Clinton 
said. She looked across the room at the two hand¬ 
some, smiling girls, and at her own pretty daughter, 
who had not been very well educated and was not 
older in mind than in age. But just then the gong 
sounded, every one took their seats, the Squire 
came in with a hearty “ Good-moming! Good- 
moming!” which greeting his assembled family and 
guests might take and divide amongst them, and the 
proceedings of the day began. 

Later in the morning Angela and Beatrice, Dick 
and Humphrey were actively engaged at lawn tennis. 
Cicely was sitting under a great lime on the lawn 
waiting for her turn. The twins, having discovered 
an unusually congenial companion in their uncle, had 
carried him off somewhere out of sight, and Cicely 
was alone for the moment. A voice behind her, 
“ Hullo, Cicely! ” made her start, and then she 
sprang up. “ Jim! ” she cried. “ How jolly to see 
you back! I thought you would come over this 
morning.” 

The game had to be interrupted while the returned 
traveller was welcomed. “ You look as fit as a fiddle, 
old boy,” said Dick. “ You’ll be able to stay at home 
and enjoy yourself now, I hope. Will you play when 
we’ve finished this.? I can lend you a pair of shoes.” 

“No thanks,” said Jim. “ I’ll talk to Cicely.” 
So the others went back on to the lawn. 


BY THE LAKE 


121 


‘‘ Come and have a stroll round,” Jim suggested; 
and Cicely, with a half-regretful glance at the tennis 
lawn, rose to go with him. 

They went to the rhododendron dell round the 
lake. It was where every one went naturally if they 
wanted to walk and talk at the same time. Jim’s 
honest, weathered face was very frequently turned 
towards Cicely’s fair, young one, and there was a 
light in his eyes which made her turn hers away a 
little confusedly when they met it. But Jim’s voice 
was level enough, and his speech ordinary. “ I’m 
jolly glad to get back again,” he said. “ I’ve never 
liked Mountfield half so well. I was up at six o’clock 
this morning, and out and about.” 

“ So was I,” said Cicely, and she told him, laugh¬ 
ing, of the events of the morning. 

“ I expect they’ve grown, those young beggars,” 
said Jim, alluding thus disrespectfully to the 
twins. ‘‘ I’ve often thought of them while I’ve been 
away, and of everybody at Kencote—you espe¬ 
cially.” 

“ We’ve all thought of you, too,” said Cicely, 
“ and talked about you. You haven’t been forgotten, 
Jim.” 

“ I hoped I shouldn’t be,” he said simply. “ By 
Jove, how I’ve looked forward to this—coming over 
here the first moment I could. I wish you hadn’t got 
all these people here, though.” 

All these people! ” echoed Cicely. “ Why, Jim, 
you know them as well as we do.” 


m THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Yes, I’m a selfish beggar. I wanted to have you 
all to myself.” 

Cicely was a little disturbed in her mind. Jim 
had not talked to her like this for five years. Ever 
since that long, happy summer when he and she had 
been together nearly every day, when he had made 
love to her in his slow, rather ponderous way, and 
she, her adolescence flattered, had said “ yes ” when 
he had asked her to marry him—or rather ever 
since he had written to her from Oxford to say that 
he must wait for some years before he could expect 
to marry and that she was to consider herself quite 
free—he had never by word or sign shown whether 
he also considered himself free, or whether he in¬ 
tended, when the time came, to ask her again to be 
his wife. When he had come back to Mountfield 
at Christmas he had been in all respects as he had 
been up to six months before, friendly and brotherly, 
and no more. It made it easier for her, for her 
pride had been a little wounded. If he had held 
aloof, but shown that, although he had given her her 
freedom, he hoped she had not accepted it, she would 
have felt irked, and whatever unformed love she had 
for Jim would quickly have disappeared. But, as 
it was, his equable friendship kept alive the affec¬ 
tion which she had always felt for him; only it 
seemed to make the remembrance of their love pas¬ 
sages a little absurd. She was not exactly ashamed 
of what had happened, but she never willingly thought 
of it, and after a year or so it became as much a part 


BY THE LAKE 


123 


of her past life as the short frocks and pinafores of 
her childhood. She had been mildly chaffed about 
Jim on occasions, and there was no doubt that in 
the minds both of her family and of Jim’s the ex¬ 
pectation of an eventual marriage had never alto¬ 
gether subsided. Nor, strangely enough, had it al¬ 
together subsided in hers, although if she had ever 
asked herself the question as to whether she was in 
love with Jim in the slightest degree she would have 
answered it forcibly in the negative. But—there it 
was, as it is with every young girl—some day she 
would be married; and it might happen that she would 
be married to Jim. 

“ Do you remember,” Jim asked her when they 
had walked the length of the lake and come out in 
front of the Temple, “ how you used to try to teach 
me to draw here ? ” 

Yes, it was obviously Jim’s intention to open up a 
buried subject, and she was not by any means pre¬ 
pared for that. The sketching lessons had been a 
shameless subterfuge for obtaining privacy, for Jim 
had about as much aptitude for the arts as a 
dromedary, and his libels on the lake and the rhodo¬ 
dendrons would have made old Merchant Jack and 
his landscape gardener turn in their graves. 

Cicely laughed. “ Have you brought back any 
sketches from your travels ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ No. I’ve got lots of photographs, though.” 
Jim was always literal. 

“ Angela and Beatrice paint beautifully,” Cicely 


124 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


said. “We are going to make sketches at Black- 
borough this afternoon. Will you come with us, 
Jim.?’ We are all going.” 

“ Yes, I’ll come,” said Jim. “ Cicely, are you glad 
to see me home again? ” 

“ Yes, of course, I’m glad. We have all missed 
you awfully, Jim.” 

“ You can’t think how bucked up I am to think 
that I need never leave Mountfield again as long as 
I live. That’s what’s so jolly about having a place 
of your own. It’s part of you. You feel that, don’t 
you. Cicely ? ” 

“ Well, as I haven’t got a place of my own, Jim, 
I don’t know that I do.” 

“ When those beastly death duties are paid off,” 
Jim began, but Cicely would not let him finish. 
“ Anyhow,” she said, “ I should hate to think I was 
going to stay in one place all my life, however much 
I liked it. Of course, it is natural that you should 
feel as you do when you have been travelling for a 
year. If I ever have the chance of travelling for a 
year perhaps I shall feel like that about Kencote.” 
She laughed and looked him in the face, blushing a 
little. “ Let us go back and play tennis,” she said. 

His face fell, and he walked by her side without 
speaking. Cicely little knew how keen was his dis¬ 
appointment. This was the hour he had been looking 
forward to every day for the last year, and this the 
place, with the sun glinting through the young green 
of beech and ash and lighting up those masses and 


BY THE LAKE 


125 


drifts of brilliant colour everywhere about them. It 
was true that he had meant to come to no conclusions 
with the girl he loved with all his heart. The time 
for that would not be for another year at least, 
according to the decision he had long since come to. 
But he had so hungered for her during his long exile, 
for such it had seemed to him in spite of the various 
enjoyments and interests he had gained from it, that 
the thought had grown with him that he would take 
just a little of the sweetness that a word from her, 
to show that she was his as he was hers, would give 
him. She had not spoken the word, and Jim’s heart 
was heavy as he walked back to the garden by her 
side. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 

“ Blackborough Castle?” said the Squire at 
luncheon. “ Well, if you like—but you’ll take your 
tea in the company of Dick, Tom and Harry, and I 
think you would be more comfortable at home.” 

I don’t suppose there’ll be anybody else there 
to-day,” said Dick, “ and the spirit of youth cries 
aloud for tea on the floor.” So it was settled. Mrs. 
Clinton and Mrs. Birket went in the carriage, Angela 
rode with Humphrey, and Dick drove the rest of the 
party, which did not include the Squire, in the 
brake. 

“ You look like bean-feasters,” said Humphrey, as 
they drove past him and Angela. “ But you need 
not behave as such,” said Miss Bird to the twins, 
who, one on each side of their uncle, were inclined 
to be a trifle uproarious. 

They had the old keep of the castle pretty well 
to themselves, spread their cloth on the green turf 
by the battlements, where centuries ago men-at-arms 
had tramped the now covered stones, and made merry 
in true picnic style. There was a footman to clear 
away, and the party broke up into little groups, and 
explored the ruins, and wandered in the thick woods 
which surrounded them. 


136 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE m 


Jim looked a little wistfully at Cicely as she went 
away with her arm in that of Beatrice Birket, but 
made no attempt to join her, and presently allied 
himself to the storming party which Joan was col¬ 
lecting to rescue Miss Bird, confined in the deepest 
dungeon. 

Now, Trixie, you have got to tell me all about 
it,” Cicely said, when the two girls were out of hear¬ 
ing of the rest. 

“ My dear,” said Beatrice, laughing, “ I told you 
last night that he had asked me and I had said yes, 
and that I am very happy.” 

“ Oh, I know. But that was before Angela, and 
she said we were to have no raptures. I want rap¬ 
tures, please.” 

“ Well, I’m afraid you won’t get them. I’m too 
well drilled. You know, Cicely, I rather envy you 
being brought up as you were. You’re more natural, 
somehow, than Angela and I.” 

“ Well, I envy you; so we’re quits. But never 
mind about that now. Trixie, is Angela just the 
least bit jealous.?^” 

“ No, not a bit,” said Beatrice loyally. “ But you 
see she’s a year older, and ever so much cleverer, and 
prettier too.” 

“ She’s none of those things except a year older. 
But she’s a dear all the same, and so are you. I 
don’t wonder at anybody falling in love with you. 
Are you very much in love too ? ” 

‘‘ Well, Cicely, I don’t mind telling you in strict 


ns THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


confidence that I am. But, perhaps, it’s in a way 
you would not sympathise with particularly.” 

“ Tell me in what way, and you’ll see.” 

“ Of course George isn’t especially good-looking; 
in fact he isn’t good-looking at all, except for his 
eyes. I used to think I should never love anybody 
unless he was as handsome as—as, well, Dick is, 
for instance—that sort of man—you know—smart 
and well set up, and ”—^with a laughs—“ rather 
ignorant.” 

“ Dick isn’t ignorant,” said Cicely indignantly. 

“ My dear, compared to George he is a monu¬ 
ment of ignorance, a pyramid of it; so are most men. 
It was just that; George is so clever, and he’s mak¬ 
ing such use of his brains too. He is one of 
the youngest men in parliament, and is in office al¬ 
ready. It was looking up to him as a pillar of 
wisdom, and then finding that he looked to me of all 
people, to help him on.” 

I’m sure you will help him on. I heard some 
one say in London that many politicians owed a 
great deal of their success to their wives.” 

“ I don’t mean quite in that way. I don’t think 
George is ambitious, though I am for him. He 
wants to get things done. Father says it is be¬ 
cause he is so young. He tells me about every¬ 
thing, and it makes me grateful—you know, I 
think when you are very grateful, that is being in 
love.” 

“ You dear thing! ” said Cicely, squeezing her arm. 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 129 


Does Uncle Herbert like him? They are not on 
the same side in politics, are they?” 

“ No. But it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t 
matter in the least to me. Of course, there are 
things. George is a tremendous churchman, you 
know, and I have never thought much about religion 
—not deeply, I mean. But it is a real thing with 
him, and I’m learning. You see. Cicely, we are 
rather a different engaged couple from most, although 
we don’t appear so to the world at large. Outside 
our two selves, George is a coming man, and I am 
a lucky girl to be making such a match.” 

“ I’m glad you have told me about it all,” Cicely 
said. ‘‘ It must be splendid to be looking forward 
to helping your husband in all the good things he is 
going to do.” 

“ Oh, it is. I am ever so happy. And George is 
the dearest soul—so kind and thoughtful, for all his 
cleverness. Cicely, you must meet him.” 

“ I should love to,” said Cicely simply. “ I never 
meet anybody interesting down here.” Her incipient 
sense of revolt had died down for the time; she was 
young enough to live in the present, if the present 
was agreeable enough, as it was with this mild, un¬ 
wonted, holiday stir about her. She only felt, 
vaguely, a little sorry for herself. 

‘‘ It is lovely,’^ said Beatrice; “ but I own I 
shouldn’t care for it all day and every day. It is 
rather jolly to feel you’re in the middle of things.” 

“ Oh, I know it is,” said Cicely, laughing. “ I 


130 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


was in the middle of things in London, and I enjoyed 
it immensely.” 

Beatrice’s engagement was the subject of another 
conversation that evening. When the party got back 
from the picnic, Cicely set out for the dower-house. 
Nobody had been near the old aunts that day; it 
was seven o’clock, and there was just time to pay 
them a short visit. Mr. Birket was in the hall as • 
she passed through, and she asked him to go with 
her. 

“ I should like to pay my respects to those two 
admirable ladies,” he said. “ They make me feel 
that I am nobody, which is occasionally good for the 
soul of man.” 

“ Ah,” said Cicely, as they went across the garden 
together, “ you are a wicked Radical, you see, and 
you want to disestablish their beloved Church.” 

Do 1? ” said Mr. Birket. “ How truly shocking 
of me. My dear, don’t believe everything you hear. 
I am sure that my chief fault is that I don’t possess 
land. Cicely, how much land must you possess if 
you really want to hold your head up? Would a 
hundred acres or so do the trick? I suppose not. 
Two hundred acres, now! I might run to that if 
the land was cheap.” 

“ Two hundred acres, I should think, uncle,” said 
Cicely, with a manor-house, and, say, a home farm. 
And if you could get the advowson of a living, it 
would be all to the good.” 

“Would it? Thank you for telling me. But 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 131 


then I should have to ask the parson to dinner, and 
we might not get on. And I should have to go to 
church. I like going to church when I’m not obliged 
to—that is if they’ll preach me a good sermon. I 
insist upon a good sermon. But if I had to go to 
set an example—well, I shouldn’t go; and then I 
should get into trouble.” 

“ Yes, I think you would, uncle. You can’t live 
your own life entirely in the country. There are 
responsibilities.” 

“Ah, you’ve thought of that, have you.^^ You 
do think things over.?^ ” 

“ Yes. I do think things over. There’s nothing 
much else to do.” 

Mr. Birket cast a side glance at her. The sun 
striking through the trees of the park flushed trans- 
lucently the smooth, fair flesh of her cheek and her 
ungloved hand. In her white frock, moving freely, 
with the springy grace of a young animal, she at¬ 
tracted the eye. Her head, under her wide hat- 
brim, was pensive, but she looked up at him with a 
smile. “ If you could bring yourself to it, you 
know,” she began, and broke off. “ I mean,” she 
began again, “ I think you must either be a man, 
or—or very young, or not young at all.” 

Mr. Birket was a man of very quick perception. 
His face softened a little. “ My dear,” he said, 
“ when you are very young things are happening 
every day, when you are a little older anything may 
happen, and when you are older still happenings 


132 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


don’t matter. But you haven’t got to the third stage 
yet.” 

“ No,” Cicely said, “ I suppose not. Happenings 
do matter to me; and there aren’t enough of them.” 

The two old ladies received Mr. Birket courteously. 
He was accidentally allied to the Clintons, and in 
his own path of life had striven, not without suc¬ 
cess, to make himself worthy of the alliance. He 
came to see them, two old ladies who had lived all 
their long lives in a small country village, had hardly 
ever been to London, and never out of England, who 
had been taught to read and write and to add up 
pounds, shillings and pence, and had never felt the 
lack of a wider education. He came with his great 
reputation, his membership of Parliament, his twenty 
thousand a year of income earned by the exercise 
of his brain, and a judgeship looming in the near 
future, and as far as they were concerned he came 
straight out of the little house on the Bathgate 
Road, now fitly occupied by a retired chemist. But 
far be it from them to show a brother of their 
nephew’s wife that he was not welcome among 
them. 

They talked of the weather, of Blackborough 
Castle, of Jim Graham’s return, and of Walter’s 
coming marriage with Muriel. 

“ Well, that will be the first wedding in the new 
generation,” said Mr. Birket. “ But there will be 
another very soon. Have you heard that my girl, 
Beatrice, is going to be married.? ” 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 133 


The old ladies had not heard this piece of news 
and expressed their interest. Privately they thought 
it a little odd that Mr. Birket should talk as if 
there were any connection between the two events, 
although, of course, it was true that Walter was of 
the new Birket generation as well as the new Clinton 
generation. 

“ She is rather yoiing,” pursued Mr. Birket, “ but 
George Senhouse is a steady fellow as well as a suc¬ 
cessful one. It is George Senhouse she is going to 
marry—you have heard of him 

“ Any relation, if I may ask, to Sir George Sen- 
house of whom we read in the House of Parlia¬ 
ment.?^ ” asked Aunt Ellen. 

“ Yes—George Senhouse—that’s the man. Not on 
my side, you know. Miss Clinton, but I’m sure you 
won’t think that a drawback.” 

Indeed it was not. Mr. Birket was a Liberal, 
and therefore a deadly foe to the true religion of the 
Church of England as by compromise established, 
and to all the societies for raising mankind to a just 
appreciation of that religion which the Misses Clin¬ 
ton supported. And Sir George Senhouse, a capable 
and earnest young man, with an historic name, had 
early devoted his powers to the defence of those 
things in the outside world which they held dear. 
It was, indeed, a surprising piece of good fortune 
for Mr. Birket—and no wonder that he was so evi¬ 
dently pleased. 

I hope your daughter will be strengthened to 


134 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


assist him in all the good work he does,” said Aunt 
Ellen. 

“ I sincerely hope she will,” said Mr. Birket. “ The 
engagement is not announced yet; but I tell yow^ 
Miss Clinton—and Miss Laura.” 

“ Oh, we should not say a word before the proper 
time,” said Aunt Laura. 

When Cicely and Mr. Birket had gone, Aunt Ellen 
said, “ You may take my word for it, sister, that it is 
owing to the Clinton connection. We have lived a 
retired life, but I know very well how these things 
tell.” 

As Cicely dressed for dinner—it was the first time 
she had been alone during the day—she thought 
about Jim, and what he had said to her, or tried to 
say to her, early in the morning. He had disturbed 
her mind and given her something that she had to 
think about. She had told Mr. Birket that she 
thought things over, and it was true; she had cour¬ 
age in that way. With but little in her education 
or scope of life to feed it, her brain was active and 
inquiring. It worked on all matters that came within 
her ken, and she never shirked a question. She 
was affectionate, loyal, and naturally light-hearted, 
but she was critical too, of herself no less than of 
others. It would have been easy for her, if she 
had had less character, to put away from her, as she 
had done for the last five years, the consideration 
of her relationship to Jim, to have ignored his ap¬ 
proach to her, since she had stopped him from 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 185 


coming closer, and to have deferred searching her 
own mind until he should have approached her again 
and in such a way that she could no longer have 
avoided it. But she had locked up the remembrance 
of the happenings of five years before in a cupboard 
of her brain, and locked the key on it. If she had 
thought of it at all, she would have had to think of 
herself as having made a present to Jim which he 
had returned to her. And because she could not 
altogether escape from the memory of it, she had 
come to look upon herself as a rather foolish and 
very immature young person in those days, who had 
not in the least known what she was about when she 
allowed herself to be made love to. 

With regard to Jim her thoughts had been even 
less definite. His attitude to her had been so en¬ 
tirely brotherly that she had never felt the necessity 
of asking herself whether he was still keeping his 
expressed love for her alive, although he would not 
show it, or whether he, too, thought of their love- 
making as a piece of rather childish folly, and had 
put it completely behind him. Beyond the first slight 
awkwardness of meeting him when he came back from 
Oxford after his letter to her, she had felt none in his 
presence, and until this very morning her attitude 
towards him had been frank and her feelings affec¬ 
tionate. He had made that possible by showing the 
same attitude and apparently the same feelings. 

But what she now had to consider was whether 
he had actually been so frank towards her as she to 


136 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


him; whether he had not been keeping something 
back, and, in effect, playing a part. If it were so, 
their relationship was not as she had thought it, and 
would have to be adjusted. 

She turned her mind to this point first. It would 
really be rather surprising if Jim had been in love 
with her all this time and she had not known it. 
She thought she must have known if it were so, and 
she rejected the idea. What she could not get away 
from—it hardly needed stating in her mind—was 
that he had tentatively made love to her that morn¬ 
ing. Or rather—and here she rather congratulated 
herself on making the distinction, as a process of 
pure thought—he had seemed to show her that mar¬ 
riage was in his mind, perhaps as a thing already 
settled between them, although she, for her part, had 
long since given up thinking of it as a matter to be 
considered, however loosely, settled. Of course she 
knew he was fond of her, as she was of him. If he 
was not in love with her, as once he had been, he 
might still want to marry her, as the nicest person 
he could find, and the requisite impulsion might come 
from his return after a long absence. She would be 
included in his heightened appreciation of all his 
home surroundings. These considerations passed 
through her mind, in no logical sequence of thought, 
but at various points of her self-questioning, and 
when she was also thinking further of her own part 
in what might follow, trying to discover what she 
wanted and to decide what she should do. The fact 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 137 

that he had opened and would probably open again 
the subject of their marriage was all that really mat¬ 
tered, and she knew that without thinking. 

She knew, too, without thinking, that she did not 
want to engage herself again to marry Jim, at any 
rate not yet; and, in fact, she would not do so. 
What her honesty of mind impelled her to was the 
discovery of the root from which this femininely 
instinctive decision had flowered. What were her 
reasons for not wanting to marry Jim now, or soon; 
and would they take from her, when examined, that 
always present but always unstated possibility of 
some day finding herself living at Mountfield as his 
wife.^ She a little dreaded the conclusion, which 
may have shown that she had already made up her 
mind; but it was here that an answer had to be 
found, and she faced it bravely. 

She was not ready to marry Jim now, or soon, 
because in the first place she did not love him—not 
in that way—and in the second place because she 
did not love, in any way, what he stood for. 

When she said to herself that she did not love 
Jim her mind recoiled a little. He was such a good 
sort, so kind, so reliable. It was just as if she had 
said that she did not love her brothers. It was 
ungracious, and ungrateful. She did love him. Dear 
old Jim! And she would be sorry to cause him pain. 
But, if she did not want him to make love to her— 
and certainly she didn’t—she couldn’t possibly love 
him as a girl ought to love her prospective husband 


138 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


—as Beatrice, for instance, loved her young par¬ 
liamentarian. That seemed settled. And because 
she did think things over, and was no longer very 
young indeed, she saw that the change of circum¬ 
stances in a girl’s life when she was going to be 
married counted for something, something of the 
pleasure, something of the excitement. It was so 
with Beatrice, and with Muriel. They loved the men 
they were going to marry, but they also got a great 
deal of satisfaction out of the change in their sur¬ 
roundings, quite apart from that. What sort of 
change would she have as Jim’s wife.^ She would 
step straight out of one large house into another, 
and she would no more be the mistress of Mount- 
field than she had been of Kencote. So she told 
herself. For the mistresses of houses like Kencote 
and Mountfield were really a sort of superior house¬ 
keeper, allowed to live with the family, but placed 
where they were with the sole object of serving their 
lords and masters, with far less independence than a 
paid housekeeper, who could take her money and go if 
she were dissatisfied with her position. 

What a prospect! To live out the rest of her 
life in the subjection against which she had already 
begun to rebel, in exactly similar surroundings and 
in exactly the same atmosphere! If she married 
Jim she would not even have the pleasure of furnish¬ 
ing her own house. It would be Jim’s house, and 
the furniture and all the appurtenances of it were 
so perfect in Jim’s eyes that she knew he would 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE 139 


never hear of her altering a thing. She would not 
be able to rearrange her drawing-room without his 
permission. That was what it meant to marry a 
country gentleman of Jim’s sort, who disliked “ gad¬ 
ding about,” and would expect his wife to go through 
the same dull round, day after day, all her life long, 
while he amused himself in the way that best suited 
him. 

When she had reached this point, and the end of 
her toilet together. Cicely suddenly determined that 
she would never marry Jim, and if he pressed her 
she would tell him so. She didn’t want to marry 
anybody. If only she could get away from Kencote 
and be a hospital nurse, or something of the sort, 
that was all she wanted. With this rather un¬ 
satisfactory conclusion she cleared her mind, ran 
downstairs, and found Jim himself alone in the 
drawing-room. 


CHAPTER X 


TOWN versus country 

Hullo!” said Jim. “You’re down early.” 

“ I didn’t know you were here,” said Cicely, and 
was annoyed at herself, and blushed in consequence. 

But whatever conclusion Jim may have drawn 
from her hurried, rather eag-er entrance, her denial, 
and her blush, he only said, “ Mother and Muriel are 
upstairs.” 

“ I wonder why Muriel didn’t come to my room,” 
said Cicely. “ I think I’ll go and find her.” 

“ All right,” said Jim, and Cicely went out of the 
room again. 

Jim took up a book from a table, turned over a 
few leaves, and then threw it down and went to the 
window, where he stood looking out, with his hands 
in his pockets. 

By and by Mr. Birket came in, and joined him. 
“ Shame to be indoors on an evening like this,” he 
said. “ I should like to dine at nine o’clock in the 
summer.” 

“ What about the servants ? ” asked Jim. 

“ Ah, yes,” said Mr. Birket. “ Is it true you are a 
Free Trader, Graham.? ” 

“ Yes, I am,” said Jim, with a shade of defiance. 

“ So am I,” said Mr. Birket. 

140 


TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 141 


Jim smiled. “ Well, you’ve got to be in your 
party,” he said. 

“Not at all. It isn’t a question of party. It’s 
a question of common-sense.” 

“ That’s just what I think. I’ve looked into it 
with as much intelligence as I’m capable of—they 
say about here that isn’t much—and I can’t see 
why you shouldn’t be a Tory as good as any of ’em 
and still stick to Free Trade.” 

“ Nor can I,” said Mr. Birket. “ But they won’t 
let you. You had better join us, Graham. Any¬ 
body with any dawning of sense must be very un¬ 
comfortable where you are.” 

“ I should be a jolly sight more uncomfortable 
with you,” said Jim. “ And I’ve got keen on the 
Empire since I’ve been travelling.” 

“ Oh, if you’ve seen it,” said Mr. Birket, somewhat 
cryptically, and then the door opened, and Mrs. 
Clinton and Mrs. Birket came in together. 

Mrs. Birket was a tall, good-looking woman, who 
held herself upright, was well dressed and well in¬ 
formed. She had a good manner, and in mixed 
company never allowed a drop in the conversation. 
But as she talked well this was not so tiresome as 
it might have been. She was quoted amongst her 
circle, which was a wide one, as an excellent hostess, 
and the tribute was deserved, because, in addition 
to her conversational aptitude, she had the art of 
looking after her guests without apparent effort. 
She had been strict with her daughters, but they 


il42 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


were now her companions, and devoted to her. Mrs. 
Clinton talked to her, perhaps more than to any other 
woman she knew, and the two were friends, al¬ 
though the circumstances of their lives were wide 
apart. 

The two ladies were followed by the four girls, 
who came in chattering, and by Mrs. Graham, who, 
even in evening clothes, with a necklace of diamonds, 
looked as if she liked dogs. Then came Humphrey, 
extraordinarily well dressed, his dark hair very sleek; 
and Dick, very well dressed too, but with less of a 
town air; and then the Squire, just upon the stroke 
of eight, obviously looking forward to his dinner. 

“ Nina, what on earth can have become of Tom 
and Grace ” he asked when he had greeted Mrs. 
Graham and Muriel. “No sign of ’em anywhere. 
We can’t wait, you know.” 

Mrs. Clinton glanced at the ormolu clock, repre¬ 
senting Time with a scythe and hour-glass, on the 
mantelpiece, but said nothing. As it began to chime 
the door opened and the Rector and Mrs. Beach were 
announced. 

“ Grace! Grace! ” said the Squire, holding up a 
warning finger, but smiling affably. “ I’ve never 
known you run it so fine before.” 

“ My dear Edward,” said Mrs. Beach, with her 
sweet smile, “ Tom broke a collar stud. It is one 
of those little accidents that nobody can foresee 
and nobody cal^ guard against.” 

“ Except by laying in a stock,” said Mrs. Graham. 


TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 143 


“ Well, my dear Grace, you were just not late,” 
said the Squire, “ I will forgive you.” 

So they all went in to dinner amicably, and a very 
good dinner it was, although there was an entire 
absence of what the Squire called French fal-lals. 
English versus French cooking was a favourite 
dinner-table topic of his, and he expatiated on it 
this evening. “ It stands to reason,” he said, that 
natural food well cooked—of course it must be well 
cooked, before an open range, and so on—is better 
than made-up stuff. Now what have we got this 
evening.? ” He put on his gold-rimmed glasses and 
took up a menu-card. A shade of annoyance passed 
over his face when he discovered that it was written 
in French. “Who wrote this rubbish.?” he asked, 
looking over his glasses at Mrs. Clinton. 

“ I did, father,” said Cicely, blushing. 

“ Good for you. Siskin! ” broke in Dick. “ Very 
well done. It gives the entertainment an air.” 

“ I helped with the accents,” said Angela. 

“ Well,” said the Squire, “ I don’t like it. As far 
as I can make out it’s a purely English dinner, ex¬ 
cept, perhaps, the soup, and it ought to be described 
in English. What’s the good of calling roast lamb 
‘ agneau roti ’.? ” He pronounced it “ rotty,” with 
an inflection of scorn. “ There’s no sense in it. But 
as I was saying—where are you going to find bet¬ 
ter food than salmon and roast lamb, new potatoes, 
asparagus, peas—of course they’re forced, but 
they’re English—and so on.? ” He threw down the 


14*4 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


card and took off his glasses. “ Everything grown 
on the place except the salmon, which old Humphrey 
Meadshire sent me.” 

“ You’ve left out the ‘ Peche a la Melba,” said 
Mrs. Beach. “ It is the crowning point of the whole 
dinner. But I quite agree wi^ you, Edward, you 
couldn’t have a better one anywhere.” 

“ Rather on the heavy side,” commented Hum¬ 
phrey. 

“ Not at all,” said Mr. Birket. “ The fruits of the 
earth in due season, or, if possible, a little before it; 
that’s the best dinner any man can have.” 

“ Every country has its own cooking,” said Mrs. 
Birket. “ I really think the English is the best if 
it is well done.” 

“ Which it very seldom is,” said Mrs. Graham. 

“ Of course this is the very best time of all the year 
for it,” said the Rector. “ Did you bring back any 
new curry recipes from India, Jim.'^ ” 

Jim replied that he had not, and the Squire said. 

By the bye, Jim, I see that fellow Mackenzie came 
home in the Punjauh. The papers are full of him 
this evening. Did you happen to meet him ? ” 

Jim said that he had shared the same cabin, and 
that Mackenzie had promised to spend a week-end 
at Mountfield some time or other. 

“ We are going to make a lion of him in London,” 
said Humphrey. “We haven’t had an explorer for 
a long time. I believe he’s shaggy enough to be a 
great success.” 


TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 145 


“ You must bring him over to dine, Jim,” said the 
Squire. “ It’s interesting to hear about these fellows 
who trot all over the world. But heavens, what a 
life!” 

“ A very good life, I think,” said Mr. Birket. 
“ Not much chance to get moss-grown.” 

“ Now, I’m sure that is a dig at us people who live 
in the country,” said Mrs. Beach. “ Because you 
don’t get moss-grown, Mr. Birket.” 

“ He would if he lived in the country,” said Mrs. 
Birket. “ He would lie on his back all day long 
and do nothing at all. He has an unequalled power 
of doing nothing.” 

“ Not at all,” said Mr. Birket. “ I’m a very hard 
worker. Cicely caught me at it at six o’clock this 
morning, didn’t you, my dear.?” 

“ You’ve no responsibilities, Herbert,” the Squire 
broke in. “ If you owned land you wouldn’t want 
to lie on your back.” 

“ He is trying to make the land lie on our 
backs,” said Dick. “ We shan’t have any left 
soon.” 

“All you Radicals,” began the Squire; but Mrs. 
Beach had something to say: “ Mr. Birket, you 
despise us country folk at the bottom of your heart. 
I’m sure you do.” 

“ Not at all,” said Mr. Birket. “ I think you live 
a peaceful and idyllic existence, and are much to be 
envied.” 

“ Peaceful! ” the Squire snorted. “ That’s all you 


146 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Radicals know about it. I assure you we work as 
hard as anybody, and get less return for it. I wish 
you’d tell your precious leaders so, Herbert.” 

“ I will,” said Mr. Birket. 

‘‘ What with one thing and another,” proceeded 
the Squire, “ the days are gone as soon as they are 
begun.” 

“ But when they are finished something has always 
been done,” said Mrs. Beach. “ That is the difference 
between a town life and a country life. In London 
you are immensely busy and tire yourself to death, 
but you’ve nothing to show for it.” 

‘‘ Your brains are sharpened up a bit,” said 
Humphrey. 

“ If you have any,” suggested Mrs. Graham. 

“ Mother, don’t be rude,” said Muriel. 

‘‘ The remark had no personal bearing,” said 
Humphrey, with a grin. 

“ I didn’t say so,” retorted Mrs. Graham. 

“ I think it is a matter of temperament,” said Mrs. 
Birket. “ Everybody who lives in London likes the 
country, and everybody who lives in the country 
likes London—for a change. But if you had to live 
in one or the other all the year round-” 

“ I would choose the country,” said Mrs. Beach, 
“ and I’m sure you would, Edward.” 

“ Of course I would,” said the Squire. “ I do live 
in the country all the year round. I’ve had enough 
of London to last me all my life.” 

‘‘ Two for the country,” said Dick. ‘‘ Now we’ll 



TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 147 


go round the table. Mother, where do your tastes 
lie.? ” 

Mrs. Clinton did not reply for a moment; then 
she said, “ I don’t think I should mind which it was 
if I had my family round me.” 

“ Oh, come now, Nina,” said the Squire, “ that’s 
no answer. Surely you don’t want to become a town 
madam.” 

“ You mustn’t bring pressure, Edward,” said Mrs. 
Beach. ‘‘We shall have quite enough on our side.” 

“ Mother neutral,” said Dick. “ Jim.? ” 

“ Oh, the country,” said Jim. 

“Three for the country. Angela.?” 

“ London.” 

“ You must give a reason,” said Mrs. Beach. 

Angela laughed. “ I like music, and plays,” she 
said, “ and hearing people talk.” 

“ Well, surely you can hear people talk in the 
country,” said the Squire. 

“ And such talk! ” added Mrs. Graham, at which 
everybody laughed except the Squire, who saw no 
humour in the remark. 

“ Three to one,” said Dick. “ Aunt Grace, you’ve 
had your turn. Now it’s mine. I don’t want to 
bury myself yet awhile, but when the time comes I 
expect I shall shy at London as the governor does. 
I’m country.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Angela. 

“ Oh, because there’s more to do. Now then, 
Beatrice. You’re London, I suppose.” 


148 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Yes,” said Beatrice. ‘‘ Because there’s more to 
do.” 

“ Good for you! That’s four to two. Mrs. 
Graham! ” 

“ Can you ask.? ” said that lady. ‘‘ And I won’t 
give any reasons. I like the country best because 
I like it best.” 

“ Father is country. Five to two.” 

“ And my reason,” said the Squire, ‘‘ is that every 
man who doesn’t like the country best, when 
he can get it, isn’t a man at all. He’s a popin¬ 
jay.” 

‘‘ Well, at the risk of being called the feminine for 
popinjay,” said Mrs. Birket, with a smile, “ I must 
choose London.” 

“ Oh, but I don’t include the women, my dear 
Emmeline,” said the Squire. ‘‘ And I don’t include 
men like Herbert either, who’ve got their work to 
do. I’m thinking of the fellows who peacock about 
on pavements when they might be doing ’emselves 
good hunting, or some such pursuit. It’s country 
sport that’s good for a man, keeps him strong and 
healthy; and he sees things in the proper light too. 
England was a better country than it is now when 
the House of Commons was chiefly made up of coun¬ 
try gentlemen. You didn’t hear anything about this 
preposterous socialism then. I tell you, the country 
gentlemen are the backbone of England, and your 
party will find it out when you’ve turned them out 
of the country.” 


TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 149 


“ Oh, but we shan’t do that,” said Mr. Birket. 
“ That would be too dreadful.” 

“ No politics,” said Dick. “ We’re five to three. 
Tom, you’re a country man, I’m sure.” 

But the Rector was not at all sure that he was. 
He sometimes thought that people were more inter¬ 
esting than Nature. On the whole, he thought he 
would choose the town. 

“ Then I change round,” said Mrs. Beach. 
‘‘ Where thou goest, Tom, I will go. Dick, I’m 
town.” 

‘‘ Then that changes the game. Town’s one up. 
Muriel, be careful.” 

‘‘ Certainly not country,” said Muriel. “ I’ve had 
enough of it. I think the best place to live in is a 
suburb.” 

“ Melbury Park! ” laughed the Squire. “ Ha! 
ha!” 

“ That’s town,” said Dick. “ Four to six. We 
yokels are getting worsted.” 

“ I’ll come to your rescue,” said Humphrey. “ I 
don’t want to be cut off with a shilling. Give me 
a big country house and a season ticket, and I’m 
with you.” 

“ Five to six then. Now, Siskin, make it all 
square.” 

“ No,” said Cicely. “ I hate the country.” 

“ What! ” exclaimed the Squire. 

“ It’s so dreadfully dull,” said Cicely. ‘‘ There’s 
nothing in the world to do.” 


150 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ But this is a revolt! ” said Dick. 

“Nothing to do!” echoed the Squire, in a voice 
of impatient censure. “ There’s everything to do. 
Don’t talk nonsense, Cicely. You have got to live 
in the country whether you like it or not, so you 
had better make the best of it.” 

“ Very sound advice,” said Mr. Birket. “ I follow 
it myself. It may surprise the company, but I’m 
for the country. Cows enrapture me, and as for the 
buttercups, there’s no flower like ’em.” 

“ Town has it,” said Dick. “ Seven to six—a very 
close match.” 

When Mr. and Mrs. Birket were alone together 
that night, Mr. Birket said, “ My dear, I think 
Edward Clinton gets more intolerable every time I 
see him. I hope I have succeeded in disguising that 
opinion.” 

“ Perfectly, Herbert,” said his wife. “ And you 
must please continue to do so for Nina’s sake.” 

Mr. Birket sighed. “ Poor dear Nina! ” he said. 
“ She was so bright as a girl. If she hadn’t married 
that dunderhead she’d have been a happy woman. 
I bet she isn’t now. He has crushed every bit of 
initiative out of her. And I’ll tell you what, my 
dear, he’ll crush It out of Cicely if she doesn’t get 
away from these deadly surroundings. Heavens, 
what a life for a clever girl I ” 

“ Do you think Cicely clever? ” 

“ She doesn’t know anything, because they have 


TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 151 


never let her learn anything. But she thinks for 
herself, and she’s beginning to kick at it all. If 
she’d had the chances our girls have had, she’d have 
made use of them. Can’t we give her a chance, 
Emmeline She’s a particularly nice girl. Have 
her up to London for a month or two. The girls are 
fond of her—and you’re fond of her too, aren’t 
you.? ” 

“ Yes, I’m very fond of her,” said Mrs. Birket. 

“Well—then, why not.?” 

“ Do you think Edward would let her come.? ” 

“ My private opinion of Edward would probably 
surprise him, if he could hear it, but I don’t think 
even he would go so far as to deny his children a 
pleasure so long as it didn’t put him out personally.” 

“ Well, I’ll ask, if you like. I should be very glad 
to have her. But some one might fall in love with 
her, you know, Herbert. She’s very pretty, and 
there’s always the chance.” 

“And why on earth not.? He doesn’t want to 
keep her an old maid, does he.?” 

“ He wants her to marry Jim Graham.” 

“ I thought that was all over years ago.” 

“ As far as she is concerned, perhaps. I’m sure 
Edward still looks upon it as going to happen some 
day.” 

“ I don’t believe she’ll marry Graham, even if he 
wants her. He’s just such another as Edward, with 
a trifle more sense.” 

“ No, Herbert, he is quite different. I like him. 


15g THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


I think it would be a good thing for Cicely to marry 
him.” 

“ She ought to have the chance of seeing other 
fellows. Then, if she likes to embark afresh on a 
vegetable existence, it will be her own choice. Of 
course, you needn’t vegetate, living in the country, 
but the wife of Jim Graham probably would. Give 
her her chance, anyway.” 

But this particular chance was denied to Cicely. 
The Squire wouldn’t hear of it. “ My dear Em¬ 
meline,” he said, it is very kind of you—^very kind 
of you indeed. But she’d only get unsettled. She’s 
got maggots in her head already. I hope some day 
to see her married to a country gentleman, like her 
mother before her. Though I say it, no women could 
be better off. Until the time comes, it’s best for 
Cicely to stay at home.” 

“ Idiot! ” said Mr. Birket, when the decision was 
conveyed to him. “ I was mistaken in him. I think 
now he would be capable of any infamy. Don’t tell 
Cicely, Emmeline.” 

But the Squire told her, and rebuked her because 
the invitation had been offered. What you have 
to do,” he said, is to make yourself happy at home. 
Heaven knows there’s enough to make you so. You 
have everything that a girl can want. For goodness’ 
sake be contented with it, and don’t always want to 
be gadding about.” 

Cicely felt too sore to answer him, and retired as 
soon as his homily was over. In the afternoon—it 


TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY 153 


was on Sunday—she went for a walk with her uncle. 
He did not express himself to her as he had done 
to Mrs. Birket, but gave her the impression that he 
thought her father’s refusal unfortunate, but not 
unreasonable, smiling inwardly to himself as he 
did so. 

“ I should have loved to come, you know. Uncle 
Herbert,” she said. 

“ And we should have loved to have you, my 
dear,” he said. “ But, after all, Kencote is a very 
jolly place, and it’s your own fault if you’re bored 
in it. Nobody ought to be bored anywhere. I 
never am.” 

“ Well then, please tell me what to do with 
myself.” 

“ What do you do, as it is ? ” 

“ I read a little, and try to paint, and-” 

“ Then read more, and try to paint better. Effort, 
my dear,—that’s the secret of life. Give yourself 
some trouble.” 

He gave her more advice as they walked and 
talked together, and she listened to him submissively, 
and became interested in what he said to her. 

“ I should like to make myself useful in some 
way,” she said. “ I don’t want to spend all my life 
amusing myself or even improving myself.” 

“ Oh, improving yourself! That’s not quite the 
way to put it. Expressing yourself—that’s what 
you want to do—^what everybody ought to do. And 
look here, my dear, when you say you want to make 



154 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


yourself useful—I suppose you mean hospital nursing 
or something of that sort, eh? ” 

Cicely laughed. “ I have thought of that,” she 
said. 

“ Well then, don’t think of it any more. It’s 
not the way—at least not for you. You make your¬ 
self useful when you make yourself loved. That’s 
a woman’s sphere, and I don’t care if all the suf¬ 
fragettes in the country hear me say it. A woman 
ought to be loved in one way or another by every¬ 
body around her; and if she is, then she’s doing 
more in the world than ninety-nine men out of a 
hundred. Men want opportunities. Every woman 
has them already. Somebody is dependent on her, 
and the more the better for her—and the world. 
What would your old aunts do without you, or your 
mother, or indeed anybody in the place? They 
would all miss you, every one. Don’t run away with 
the idea you’re not wanted. Of course you’re wanted. 
We want you, only we can’t have you because they 
want you here.” 

You give me a better conceit of myself,” she said 
gratefully. 

‘‘ Keep it, my dear, keep it,” said Mr. Birket. 
“ The better conceit we have of ourselves the more 
we accomplish. Now I think we’d better be turn¬ 
ing back.” 


CHAPTER XI 


A WEDDING 

The London newspapers devoted small space, if any, 
to the wedding of Walter Clinton, Esq., M.D., third 
son of Edward Clinton, Esq., of Kencote, Meadshire, 
and Muriel, only daughter of the late Alexander 
Graham, Esq., and the Honourable Mrs. Graham of 
Mountfield, Meadshire, but the Bathgate Herald and 
South Meadshire Advertiser devoted two of its val¬ 
uable columns to a description of the ceremony, a 
list of the distinguished guests present, and a cata¬ 
logue of the wedding presents. No name that could 
possibly be included was left out. The confectioner 
who supplied the cake, the head gardeners at Kencote 
and Mountfield who—obligingly—supplied the floral 
decorations; the organist who presided, as organists 
always do, at the organ, and gave a rendering, a very 
inefficient one, of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March; the 
schoolmaster who looked after the children who 
strewed flowers on the churchyard path; the coach¬ 
man who drove the happy pair to the station; the 
station-master who arranged for them a little salvo 
of his own, which took the form of fog-signals, as 
the train came in—they were all there, and there 
was not an error in their initials or in the spelling 
155 


156 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


of their names, although there were a good many in 
the list of distinguished guests, and still more in the 
long catalogue of presents. 

There was a large number of presents, more than 
enough to open the eyes of the readers of the 
Melhury Park Chronicle and North London Intelli¬ 
gencer, which, by courtesy of its contemporary, 
printed the account in full, except for the omission 
of local names, and in minion instead of bourgeois 
type. Some of the presents were valuable and others 
were expensively useless, and the opinion expressed 
in Melbury Park was that the doctor couldn’t possi¬ 
bly find room for them all in his house and would 
have to take a bigger one. Melbury Park opened 
its eyes still wider at the number of titles repre¬ 
sented amongst the donors, for the Clintons, as has 
been said, had frequently married blood, and many 
of their relations were represented, Walter had been 
popular with his school and college friends, and on 
Muriel’s side the Conroys and their numerous con¬ 
nections had come down handsomely in the way of 
Georgian sugar-sifters, gold and enamelled umbrella 
tops, silver bowls and baskets and bridge boxes, 
writing-sets, and candlesticks, and other things more 
or less adapted to the use of a doctor’s wife in a 
rather poor suburb of London. 

The wedding, if not ‘‘ a scene of indescribable 
beauty, fashion and profusion,” as the Bathgate 
reporter, scenting promotion, described it, was a 
very pretty one. The two big houses produced for 


A WEDDING 


157 


the occasion a sufficient number of guests, and the 
surrounding country of neighbours, to fill Mountfield 
church with a congregation that was certainly well 
dressed, if not noticeably reverent. The bride looked 
beautiful, if a trifle pale, under her veil and orange 
blossoms, and the bridegroom as gallant as could be 
expected under the circumstances. There were six 
bridesmaids, the Honourable Olivia and Martha Con¬ 
roy and Miss Evelyn Graham, cousins of the bride, 
and the Misses Cicely, Joan, and Nancy Clinton, 
sisters of the bridegroom, who were attired—but 
why go further into these details, which were so fully 
gone into in the journals already mentioned.^ Suffice 
it to say that the old starling, in a new gown and 
the first toque she had ever worn, wept tears of pride 
at the appearance of her pupils, and told them after¬ 
wards, most unwisely, that the Misses Olivia and 
Martha Conroy could not hold a candle to them in 
respect of good looks. 

The twins—there is no gainsaying it—did look 
angelic, with their blue eyes and fair hair, and the 
Misses Conroy, who were of the same sort of age, 
were not so well favoured by nature; but that was 
no reason why Joan should have told them that they 
were a plain-headed pair, and Nancy that they had 
spoilt the whole show, when some trifling dispute 
arose between them at the close of a long day’s 
enthusiastic friendship. The Misses Conroy, though 
deficient in beauty, were not slow in retort, and but 
for the fine clothes in which all four were attired. 


158 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


it is to be feared that the quarrel would have been 
pushed to extremes. It was a regrettable incident, 
but fortunately took place in a retired corner 
of the grounds, and stopped short of actual vio¬ 
lence. 

Jim Graham gave his sister away, and Dick acted 
as best man to his brother, piloting him through the 
various pitfalls that befall a bridegroom with the 
same cool efficiency as he displayed in all emergencies, 
great or small. It was this characteristic which 
chiefly differentiated him from his father, who may 
have been efficient, but was not cool. 

Jim Graham’s eyes often rested on Cicely during 
the wedding ceremony. She was by far the prettiest 
of the bridesmaids, and it was little wonder if his 
thoughts went forward to the time when he and she 
would be playing the leading part in a similar 
ceremony. But there was some uneasiness mixed 
with these anticipations. Cicely was not quite the 
same towards him as she had been before his journey, 
although since that morning by the lake he had 
made no attempt to depart from the brotherly inti¬ 
macy which he had told himself was the best he had 
a right to until he could claim her for his own. She 
had never seemed quite at her ease with him, and 
he was beginning to follow up the idea, in his slow, 
tenacious way, that his wooing, when he should be 
ready for it, would have to be done all over again— 
that it might not be easy to claim her for his own. 
And, of course, that made him desire her all the 


A WEDDING 


159 


more, and added in his eyes to her grace and girlish 
beauty. 

Afterwards, in the house and on the lawn, where 
a band played and a tent for refreshments had been 
put up, he talked to her whenever he could and did 
his best to keep a cheerful, careless air, succeeding 
so well that no one observing him would have 
guessed that he had some difficulty in doing so. Ex¬ 
cept Cicely; she felt the constraint. She felt that 
he was in process of marking the difference in her 
attitude towards him, and was impatient of the slow, 
ruminating observation of which she would be the 
object. As long as he was natural with her she would 
do her best to keep up the same friendly and even 
affectionate relations which had existed between them 
up to a year ago, but she could not help a slight 
spice of irritation creeping into her manner in face 
of that subtle change behind his ordinary address. 
She was trying to clear up her thoughts on many 
matters, and Jim was the last person in the world to 
help her. She wanted to be left alone. If only he 
would do that! It was the only possible way by 
which he could gain the end which, even now, she 
was not quite sure that she would refuse him in the 
long-run. 

“Well, you needn’t be snappy,” Jim said to her, 
with a good-humoured smile on his placid face when 
he had asked her for further details of her visit to 
London. 

She made herself smile in return. “Was 1? ” she 


160 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


said. “ I didn’t mean to be; but I have been home 
nearly a month now, and I’m rather tired of talking 
about London.” 

“ All right,” replied Jim. “ I agree that this is a 
better place. Come and have a look at the nags. 
There has been such a bustle that I haven’t been near 
them to-day.” 

But Cicely refused to go and look at the nags. 
Nags were rather a sore point with her, and the 
constant inspection and weighing of the qualities of 
those at Kencote was enough for her without the 
addition of the stables at Mountfield. So they went 
back from the rose-garden where they were standing 
to join the crowd on the lawn. 

Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura sat in the shade of a 
big cedar and held a small reception. During their 
long lives they had been of scarcely any account in 
the ebb and flow of Clinton affairs, but the tide of 
years had shelved them on a little rock of importance, 
and they were paid court to because of their age. 
Old Lord Meadshire was the only other member of 
their generation left alive. He was their first 
cousin. His mother had been the youngest of 
Merchant Jack’s five daughters. He had never 
failed to pay them courteous attention whenever he 
had been at Kencote, and he was talking to them 
now, as Cicely joined them, of the days when they 
were all young together. The two old ladies had 
quite come to believe that they and their cousin 
Humphrey had spent a large part of their childhood 


A WEDDING 


161 


together, although he was fifteen years younger than 
Aunt Ellen, and his visits to Kencote during his 
youth had been extremely rare. Colonel Thomas had 
been too busy with his chosen pursuits to have much 
time for interchange of social duties, proclaimed 
himself a fish out of water, and behaved like one, 
whenever he went to the house of his youngest sister, 
and had little to offer a lady of high social impor¬ 
tance and tastes in a visit to his own. 

“ Well, my dear,” Lord Meadshire said to Cicely, 
as she approached, “ I was reminding your aunts of 
the time when we used to drive over from Melford 
to Kencote in a carriage with postillions. Very few 
railways in those days. We old people like to put 
our heads together and talk about the past some¬ 
times. I recollect my grandfather —our grand¬ 
father,” and he bowed to the two old ladies—“ Mer¬ 
chant Jack they used to call him here, because he 
had made his money in the city as younger sons used 
to do in those days, and are beginning to do again 
now, but they don’t go into trade as they did then; 
and he was born in the year of the Battle of Cul- 
loden. That takes you back—^what.?’ ” 

“ I recollect,” said Aunt Ellen in a slow, careful 
voice, “ when our Uncle John used to come down to 
Kencote by the four-horse coach, and post from 
Bathgate.” 

“ Ah,” said Lord Meadshire sympathetically, “ I 
never saw my Uncle John, to my knowledge, though 
he left me a hundred pounds in his will. I recollect 


162 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


I spent it on a tie-pin. I was an extravagant youtig 
dog in those days, my dear. You wouldn’t have 
suspected me of spending a hundred pounds on a 
tie-pin, would you.?’ ” 

“ Uncle John was very kind to us,” said Aunt 
Laura. “ There were six of us, but he never came 
to the house without bringing us each a little 
present.” 

“ He was always dressed in black and wore a tie- 
wig,” said Aunt Ellen. “ Our dear father and he 
were very dissimilar, but our father relied on his 
judgment. It was he who advised him to send Ed¬ 
ward to Bathgate Grammar School.” 

“ He would take a kind interest in our pursuits,” 
said Aunt Laura, “ and would always walk with us 
and spend part of the day with us, however occupied 
he might be with our father.” 

“ Edward was very high-spirited as a child,” said 
Aunt Ellen, “ and our dear father did not sufficiently 
realise that if he encouraged him to break away from 
his lessons, which we all took it in turns to give him, 
it made him difficult to teach.” 

“ And when Uncle John went away in the morning 
he gave us each one a present of five new sovereigns 
wrapped in tissue paper,” said Aunt Laura, ‘‘ and he 
would say, ‘ That is to buy fal-lals with.’ ” 

“ So our Uncle John and our Uncle Giles, the 
Rector, persuaded our father to send Edward to 
Bathgate Grammar School, where he remained until 
he went to Eton, riding over there on Monday morn- 


A WEDDING 


163 


ing and returning home on Saturday,” concluded 
Aunt Ellen. 

Lord Meadshire took his leave of the old ladies, 
and Aunt Ellen said, I am afraid that our cousin 
Humphrey is ageing. We do not see him as much 
as we used to do. He was very frequently at Ken- 
cote in the old days, and we were always pleased to 
see him. With the exception of your dear father, 
there is no man for whom I have a greater regard.” 

“ He is a darling,” said Cicely. “ He is as kind as 
possible to everybody. Would you like me to get you 
anything. Aunt Ellen? I must go to Muriel now.” 

‘‘ No thank you, my dear,” said Aunt Ellen. 

Your Aunt Laura and I have had sufficient. We 
will just rest quietly in the shade, and I have no doubt 
that some others of our kind friends will come and 
talk to us.” 

It was getting towards the time for the bride and 
bridegroom to depart for their honeymoon, which 
they were to spend in Norway. Walter had had no 
holiday of any sort that year and had thought the 
desire for solitude incumbent on newly married 
couples might reasonably be conjoined with the de¬ 
sire for catching salmon; and Muriel had agreed with 
him. 

The men were beginning to show a tendency to 
separate from the ladies. The Rector of Kencote 
and the Vicar of Melbury Park, a new friend of 
Walter’s who happened, as the Squire put it, to be 
a gentleman, were talking together by the buffet 


164 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


under the tent. The Vicar, who was thin and elderly, 
and looked jaded, was saying that the refreshment 
to mind and spirit, to say nothing of body, which 
came from living close to Nature was incalculable, 
and the Rector was agreeing with him, mentally re¬ 
serving his opinion that the real refreshment to mind 
and spirit, to say nothing of body, was to be found, 
if a man were strong enough to find it, in hard and 
never-ending work in a town. 

At the other end of the buffet Dick and Humphrey 
and Jim Graham were eating sandwiches and drink¬ 
ing champagne. They were talking of fishing, with 
reference to Walter’s approaching visit to a water 
which all four of them had once fished together. 

“ It is rather sad, you know,” said Humphrey. 
“Remember what a good time we had, Jim? It’ll 
never happen again. I hate a wedding. It’ll be you 
next.” 

Jim looked at him inscrutably. “ Or Dick,” he 
said. 

Dick put down his glass. “ I’m not a starter,” he 
said. “ I must go and see that Walter doesn’t forget 
to change his tie.” 

The Squire and Mrs. Clinton and Lord Conroy 
were in a group together on the lawn. Lord Conroy, 
bluff and bucolic, was telling Mrs. Clinton about his 
own marriage, fifteen years before. “ Never thought 
I should do it,” he said, “ never. There was I, forty 
and more, but sound, Mrs. Clinton, mind you, sound 
as a bell, though no beauty—ha, ha! And there 


A WEDDING 


165 


was my lady, twenty odd, as pretty as paint, and 
with half the young fellows in London after her. I 
said, ‘ Come now, will you have me.^ Will you or 
won’t you.f^ I’m not going near London,’ I said, 
‘ not once in five years, and I don’t like soup. 
Otherwise you’ll have your own way and you’ll find 
me easy to get on with.’ She took me, and here we 
are now. I don’t believe there’s a happier couple in 
England. I believe in marrying, myself. Wish I’d 
done it when I was a young fellow, only then I 
shouldn’t have got my lady. I’m very glad to see 
my niece married to such a nice young fellow as your 
son—very glad indeed; and my sister tells me there’s 
likely to be another wedding in both families before 
long—eh.f^ Well, I mustn’t be too inquisitive; but 
Jim’s a nice young fellow too, a very nice young 
fellow, though as obstinate as the devil about this 
Radical kink he’s got in his brain.” 

“ Oh, he’ll get over that,” said the Squire. It 
isn’t sense, you know, going against the best brains 
in the country; I tell him we’re not all likely to be 
wrong. And he’s got a stake, too. It don’t do to 
play old Harry with politics when you’ve got a 
stake.” 

“ Gad, no,” assented Lord Conroy. “ We’ve got 
to stand together. I’m afraid your brother’s against 
us, though, eh, Mrs. Clinton?” 

‘‘ Oh, Herbert! ” said the Squire. “ He’s a lawyer, 
and they can always make white black if it suits ’em.” 

Mrs. Clinton flushed faintly, and Lord Conroy 


166 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


said, “ He’s a very rising man, though, and not so 
advanced as some. He told me a story just now 
about a judge and one of those Suffragettes, as they 
call ’em, and I haven’t heard such a good story for 
many a long day.” And Lord Conroy laughed very 
heartily, but did not repeat the story. 

The carriage drove round to the door, the coach¬ 
man and the horses adorned with white favours, and 
the guests drifted towards the house and into the 
big hall. Walter and Dick came down the staircase, 
and Muriel and her mother and Cicely followed im¬ 
mediately afterwards. Muriel’s eyes were wet, but 
she was merry and talkative, and Mrs. Graham was 
more brusque in her speech than usual, but very 
talkative too. Every one crowded round them, and 
Walter had some difficulty in leading his bride 
through the throng. There was laughter and hand¬ 
shaking and a general polite uproar. At last they 
got themselves into the carriage, which rolled away 
with them to their new life. It was really Joan and 
Nancy who had conceived the idea of tying a pair 
of goloshes on behind, but the Misses Conroy had 
provided them, one apiece, and claimed an equal 
share in the suggestion. It was arising out of this 
that their quarrel presently ensued, and they might 
not have quarrelled at all had not Miss Bird told 
the twins in the hearing of their friends that where 
they had learned such a vulgar notion passed her 
comprehension. It was really a dispute that did all 
four young ladies very great credit. 


CHAPTER XII 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 

The Rector gave out his text, ‘‘ Is not the life more 
than meat and the body more than raiment ? ” and 
proceeded to read his homily in a monotonous, sweet- 
toned voice which had all the good effects of a sleep¬ 
ing-draught and none of the bad ones. 

Kencote church was old, and untouched by modern 
restoration or Catholic zeal. The great west door 
was open, and framed a bright picture of trees and 
grass and cloudless sky. The hot sunshine ot an 
August morning shone through the traceried windows 
in the nave, and threw a square of bright colour 
from the little memorial window in the chancel on to 
the wide, uneven stone pavement. But the church 
was cool, with the coolness of ancient, stone-built 
places, which have resisted for centuries the attacks 
of sun and storm alike, and gained something of the 
tranquil insensibility of age. 

The congregation was penned, for the most part, 
in high pews. When they stood up to sing they 
presented a few score of heads and shoulders above 
the squares and oblongs of dark woodwork; when 
they sat or knelt the nave seemed to be suddenly 
emptied of worshippers, and the drone of the re¬ 
sponses mounting up to the raftered roof had a 
167 


168 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


curious effect, and seemed to be the voice of the old 
church itself, paying its tribute to the unseen 
mysteries of the long ages of faith. 

On the north side of the chancel, which was two 
steps higher than the nave, was the Squire’s pew. 
Its occupants were shielded from the gaze of those 
in the body of the church by a faded red curtain 
hung on an iron rail, but the Squire always drew it 
boldly aside during the exhortation and surveyed the 
congregation, the greater part of which was de¬ 
pendent on him for a livelihood and attended church 
as an undergraduate “ keeps chapels,” for fear of 
unpleasant consequences. 

The Squire’s pew occupied the whole of the space 
usually devoted to the organ and the vestry in 
modern built churches, and had a separate entrance 
from the churchyard. It had a wooden floor, upon 
which was a worn blue carpet sprinkled with yellow 
fleurs de lis. The big hassocks and the seat that 
ran along the north wall were covered with the same 
material. In front of the fixed bench was a row of 
heavy chairs; in the wall opposite to the curtain was 
a fireplace. Mrs. Clinton occupied the chair nearest 
to the fire, which was always lit early on Sunday 
morning in the winter, but owing partly to the out- 
of-date fashion of the grate and partly to the height 
and extent of the church, gave no more heat than 
was comfortable to those immediately within its 
radius, and none at all to those a little way from 
it. The Squire himself remained outside its grateful 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


169 


influence. His large, healthy frame, well covered with 
flesh, enabled him to dispense with artificial warmth 
during his hour and a half’s occupation of the family 
pew, and also to do his duty by using the last of the 
row of chairs and hassocks, and so to command the 
opportunities afforded by the red curtain. 

On the stone walls above the wainscoting were 
hung great hatchments, the canvas of some fraying 
away from the black quadrangular frames after a 
lapse of years, and none of them very recently hung 
there. The front of the pew was open to the chancel, 
and commanded a full view of the reading-desk and 
a side glimpse of the pulpit through the bars of the 
carved, rather battered rood-screen. Flanked by the 
reading-desk on one side and the harmonium on the 
other were the benches occupied by the school- 
children who formed the choir, and behind them were 
other benches devoted to the use of the Squire’s 
household, whose devotions were screened from the 
gaze of the common worshippers by no curtain, and 
who, therefore—maids, middle-aged women, and 
spruce men-servants—provided a source of interested 
rumination when heads were raised above the wooden 
partitions, and bonnets, mantles, and broadcloth 
could be examined, and perhaps envied, at leisure. 

Cicely had played the Rector up into the pulpit 
with the last verse of a hymn, had found the place 
from which she would presently play him down again 
with the tune of another, had propped the open book 
on the desk of the harmonium, and had then slid 


170 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


noiselessly into a chair on a line with the front choir 
bench, where she now sat with her hands in her lap, 
facing the members of her assembled family, some¬ 
times looking down at the memorial brass of Sir 
Richard Clinton, knight, obiit 1445, which was let 
into the pavement at her feet, sometimes, through 
the open doors of the rood screen, to where that 
bright picture of sunlit green shone out of the sur¬ 
rounding gloom at the end of the aisle. 

“ Is not the life more than meat and the body 
than raiment? ” The text had been given out twice 
and carefully indexed each time. The Squire had 
fitted his gold-rimmed glasses on to his nose and 
tracked down the passage in his big Bible. Having 
satisfied himself that the words announced were 
identical with the words printed, he had put the Bible 
on the narrow shelf in front of him and closed his 
eyes. His first nod had followed, as usual, about 
three minutes after the commencement of the ser¬ 
mon. He had then opened his eyes wide, met the 
fascinated gaze of a small singing-girl opposite to 
him, glared at her, and, having reduced her to a 
state of cataleptic terror, pushed aside the red cur¬ 
tain and transferred his glare to the body of the 
church. The bald head of a respectable farmer and 
the bonnet of his wife, which were all he could see 
of the congregation at the moment, assured him that 
all was well. He drew the curtain again and went 
comfortably to sleep without further ado. 

Mrs. Clinton, at the other end of the row, sat quite 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


171 


still, with no more evidence of mental effort on her 
comely, middle-aged face than was necessary for the 
due reception of the Rector’s ideas, and that was 
very little. Joan and Nancy sat one on either side 
of Miss Bird, Joan next to her mother. They looked 
about everywhere but at the preacher, and bided 
with what patience they possessed the end of the 
discourse, aided thereto by a watchful eye and an 
occasional admonitory peck from the old starling. 
Dick had come in late and settled himself upon the 
seat behind the row of chairs. Upon the commence¬ 
ment of the sermon he had put his back against the 
partition supporting the curtain, and his long legs 
up on the bench in front of him, and by the look on 
his lean, sunburnt face was apparently resting his 
brain as well as his body. 

“ Is not the life more than meat and the body than 
raiment.^ ” The technique of the Rector’s sermons 
involved the repetition of his text at stated intervals. 
Cicely thought, as the words fell on her ears for the 
third or fourth time, that she could have supplied 
a meaning to them which had escaped the preacher. 
Food and raiment! That represented all the things 
amongst which she had been brought up, the large, 
comfortable rooms in the big house, the abundant, 
punctual meals, the tribe of servants, the clothes and 
the trinkets, the gardens and stables, well-stocked 
and well-filled, the home farm, kept up to supply the 
needs of the large household, everything that came 
to the children of a well-to-do country gentleman as 


m THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


a matter of course, and made life easy—but oh, how 
dull! 

No one seeing her sitting there quietly, her slender, 
ungloved hands lying in her lap, prettily dressed in 
a cool summer frock and a shady, flower-trimmed 
hat, with the jewelled chains and bracelets and 
brooches of a rich man’s daughter rousing the admir¬ 
ing envy of the school-children, whose weekly excite¬ 
ment it was to count them up—nobody would have 
thought that under the plaited tresses of this young 
girl’s shapely head was a brain seething in revolt, or 
that the silken laces of her bodice muffled the beat¬ 
ings of a heart suffocated by the luxurious dulness of 
a life which she now told herself had become insup¬ 
portable. Cicely had thought a great deal since her 
visit to London and Muriel’s wedding, and had ar¬ 
rived at this conclusion—that she was suffocating, 
and that her life was insupportable. 

She raised her eyes and glanced at her father, 
wrapped in the pleasant slumber that overtakes 
healthy, out-of-door men when they are forced for 
a time into unwonted quiescence, and at her brother, 
calm and self-satisfied, dressed with a correct elabo¬ 
ration that was only unobtrusive because it was so 
expensively perfect. The men of the family—every¬ 
thing was done to bring them honour and gratifica¬ 
tion. They had everything they wanted and did what 
they would. It was to them that tribute and obedi¬ 
ence were paid by every one around them, including 
their own women-folk. 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


173 


She looked at her two young sisters. They were 
^^PPy enough in their free and healthy childhood; 
so had she been at their age, when the spacious house 
and the big gardens, the stables and the farm and 
the open country had provided everything she needed 
for her amusement. But even then there had been 
the irksome restraint exercised by “ the old starling ” 
and the fixed rules of the house to spoil her freedom, 
while her brothers had been away at Eton, or at 
Oxford or Cambridge, trying their wings and pre¬ 
paring for the unfettered delights of well-endowed 
manhood. 

She looked at her mother, placid and motionless. 
Her mother was something of an enigma, even to her, 
for to those who knew her well she always seemed 
to be hiding something, something in her character, 
which yet made its mark in spite of the subjection 
in which she lived. Cicely loved her mother, but 
she thought of her now with the least little shade of 
contempt, which she would have been shocked to 
recognise as such. Why had she been content to 
bring all the hopes and ambitions that must have 
stirred her girlhood thus into subjection.? What 
was the range of her life now.? Ruling her large 
house with a single eye to the convenience of her 
lord and master, liable to be scolded before her 
children or her household if anything went wrong; 
blamed if the faults of any one of the small army 
of servants reached the point at which it disturbed 
his ease; driving out in her fine carriage to pay dull 


m THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


calls on dull neighbours; looking after the comfort 
of ungrateful villagers; going to church; going to 
dinner-parties ; reading; sewing; gardening under 
pain of the head gardener’s displeasure, which was 
always backed up by the Squire if complaint was 
brought to him that she had braved it; getting up 
in the morning and going to bed at night, at stated 
hours without variation; never leaving her cage of 
confined luxury, except when it suited his con¬ 
venience that she should leave it with him. She was 
nothing but a slave to his whims and prejudices, and 
so were all the women of the family, slaves to wait 
upon and defer humbly and obediently to their 
mankind. 

“ Is not the life more than meat and the body than 
raimentIt was the men who enjoyed the life, 
and the meat and raiment as well. While the women 
vegetated at home, they went out into the world. 
It was true that they were always pleased to come 
back again, and no wonder, when everything was 
there that could minister to their amusement. It 
was quite different for her, living at home all the 
year round. She was quite sick of it. Why was 
not her father like other men of his wealth and 
lineage, who had their country houses and their 
country sports, but did not spend the whole year 
over them.? Daughters of men of far less estab¬ 
lished position than the Squire went to London, went 
abroad, visited constantly at other country houses, 
and saw many guests in their own houses. Her own 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


175 


brothers did all these things, except the last. They 
seldom brought their friends to Kencote, she sup¬ 
posed because it was not like other big country 
houses, at any rate not like the houses at which they 
stayed. It was old-fashioned, not amusing enough; 
shooting parties were nearly always made up from 
amongst neighbours, and if any one stayed in the 
house to shoot, or for the few winter balls, it was 
nearly always a relation, or at best a party of rela¬ 
tions. And the very few visits Cicely had ever paid 
had been to the houses of relations, some of them 
amusing, others not at all so. 

She was now rather ashamed of her diatribe to 
Muriel Graham about her London visit. She must 
have given Muriel the impression that what she 
hungered for was smart society. She remembered 
that she had compared the ball at the house of her 
aunt, Mrs. Birket, unfavourably with those at other 
houses at which she had danced, and blushed and 
fidgeted with her fingers when she thought of this. 
She liked staying with Mrs. Birket better than with 
any other of her relations, and she was still sore at 
her father’s refusal to allow her to spend some 
months with her. She met clever, interesting people 
there, she was always made much of, and she ad¬ 
mired and envied her cousins. They had travelled, 
they heard music, saw plays and pictures, read 
books; and they could talk upon all these subjects, as 
well as upon politics and upon what was going on 
in the big world that really mattered—not super- 


176 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


ficiallj, but as if they were the things that interested 
them most, as she knew they were. It was that kind 
of life she really longed for; she had only got her 
thoughts a little muddled in London because she 
had been rather humiliated in feeling herself a 
stranger where her brothers were so much at home. 
When she saw Muriel again she must put herself 
right there. Muriel would understand her. Muriel 
had cut herself adrift from the well-fed stagnation 
of country life and rejoiced to be the partner of a 
man who was doing something in the world. Life 
was more than food to her and the body than 
raiment. Cicely wished that such a chance had come 
to her. 

But the Rector had repeated his text for the last 
time, and was drawing to the end of his discourse. 
She must slip back to her seat at the harmonium, and 
defer the consideration of her own hardships until 
later. 

The congregation aroused itself and stood up upon 
the stroke of the word “ now ”; and, whilst the last 
hymn was being given out and played over, the 
Squire started on a collecting tour with the wooden, 
baize-lined plate which he drew from beneath his 
chair. The coppers clinked one by one upon the 
silver already deposited by himself and his family, 
and he closely scrutinised the successive offerings. 
His heels rang out manfully upon the worn pavement 
beneath which his ancestors were sleeping, as he 
strode up the chancel and handed the alms to the 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


177 


Rector. He was refreshed by his light slumber, his 
weekly duty was coming to an end, and he would 
soon be out in the open air inspecting his stables 
and looking forward to his luncheon. He sang the 
last verses of the hymn lustily, his glasses on his 
nose, a fine figure of a man, quite satisfied with him¬ 
self and the state in life to which he had been 
called. 

The congregation filed out of church into the 
bright sunshine. Dick, with Joan on one side of him 
and Nancy on the other, set out at a smart pace 
across the park, bound for the stables and the home 
farm. Cicely walked with the old starling, who lifted 
her flounced skirt over her square-toed kid boots, as 
one who expected to find dew where she found grass, 
even in the hot August noonday. The Squire and 
Mrs. Clinton brought up the rear, and the men and 
maids straggled along a footpath which diverged to 
another quarter of the house. 

Cicely left the rest of the family to the time- 
honoured inspection of horses and live stock, always 
undertaken, summer and winter, after church on 
Sunday morning, as a permissible recreation on a 
day otherwise devoted to sedentary pursuits. It 
was one of the tiresome routine habits of her life, 
and she was sick of routine. She dawdled in her 
bedroom, a room at least twenty feet square, with 
two big windows overlooking the garden and the 
park and the church tower rising from amongst its 
trees, until the gong sounded, when she hurried 


178 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


downstairs and took her seat at the luncheon table 
on the right of her father. 

The sweets and a big cake were on the table, of 
which the appointments were a mixture of massive 
silver plate and inexpensive glass and china. The 
servants handed round the first hot dish, placed a 
cold uncut sirloin of beef in front of the Squire and 
vegetable dishes on the sideboard, and then left the 
room. After that it was every one help yourself. 
This was the invariable arrangement of luncheon on 
Sundays, and allowing for the difference of the 
seasons the viands were always the same. If any¬ 
body staying in the house liked to turn up their 
noses at such Sunday fare—one hot entree, cold beef, 
fruit tarts and milk puddings, a ripe cheese and a 
good bottle of wine, why they needn’t come again. 
But very few people did stay in the house, as has 
been said, and none of those who did had ever been 
known to object. There were no week-end parties, 
no traffic of mere acquaintances using the house like 
an hotel and amusing themselves with no reference 
to their host or hostess. The Squire was hospitable 
in an old-fashioned way, liked to see his friends 
around him and gave them of his best. But they 
must be friends, and they must conform to the usages 
of the house. 

The talk over the luncheon table began with the 
perennial topic of the breeding of partridges and 
pheasants, and was carried on between the Squire 
and Dick, while the women kept submissive silence 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


179 


in the face of important matters with which they 
had no concern. Then it took a more general 
turn, and drifted into a reminiscence of the con¬ 
versation that had taken place over the dinner table 
the night before. Mrs. Graham and Jim had dined 
at Kencote and brought Ronald Mackenzie with 
them, who had arrived the evening before on his 
promised week-end visit. 

Humphrey’s prophecy had come true. Mackenzie 
had been the lion of the London season, and now that 
London was empty might have taken his choice of 
country houses for a week-end visit from whatever 
county he pleased. His visit was something of an 
honour, and was even chronicled in the newspapers, 
which had not yet lost interest in his movements. 
He was a star of considerable magnitude, liable to 
wane, of course, but never to sink quite into ob¬ 
scurity, and just now a planet within everybody’s 
ken. 

It was characteristic of the Clinton point of view 
that the parentage of this man, whose sole title to 
fame arose from the things that he had done, should 
be discussed. Dick knew all about him. He did not 
belong to any particular family of Mackenzies. He 
was the son of a Scots peasant, and was said to have 
tramped to London at the age of sixteen, and to have 
taken forcible shipment as a stowaway in the Black- 
Lyell Arctic Expedition; and afterwards to have 
climbed to the leadership of expeditions of his own 
with incredible rapidity. He had never made any 


180 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


secret of his lowly origin, and was even said to be 
proud of it. The Squire approved heartily of this. 

It was also characteristic of the Squire that a man 
who had done big things and got himself talked about 
should be accepted frankly as an equal, and, outside 
the sphere of clanship, even as a superior. A great 
musician would have been treated in the same way, 
or a great painter, or even a great scholar. For the 
Squire belonged to the class of all others the most 
prejudiced and at the same time the most easily led, 
when its slow-moving imagination is once touched— 
a class which believes itself divinely appointed to 
rule, but will give political adherence and almost 
passionate personal loyalty to men whom in the type 
it most dislikes, its members following one another 
like sheep when their first instinctive mistrust has 
been overcome. Mackenzie was one of the most 
talked of men in England at this moment. It was 
a matter of congratulation that Jim had caught him 
for a two-days’ visit, though Jim’s catch had involved 
no more skill than was needed to answer an unex¬ 
pected note from Mackenzie announcing his arrival 
on Friday afternoon. The Clintons had dined at 
Mountfield on Friday night, the Grahams and Mac¬ 
kenzie had dined at Kencote on Saturday, and it had 
been arranged that Jim and his guest should drive 
over this afternoon and stay to dine again. 

When luncheon was over the Squire retired into 
the library with the Spectator, which it was known 
he would not read, Dick went into the smoking-room, 


FOOD AND RAIMENT 


181 


Mrs. Clinton and Miss Bird upstairs, and the twins 
straight into the garden, where Cicely presently fol¬ 
lowed them with a book. She settled herself in a 
basket chair under a great lime tree on the lawn, and 
leaving her book lying unopened on her lap, gave 
herself over to further reverie. 

Perhaps the sudden descent of this man from a 
strange world into the placid waters of her life had 
something to do with the surging up of her dis¬ 
content, for she had not been so discontented since 
the Birkets’ visit two months before, having followed 
out to some extent her uncle’s advice and found life 
quite supportable in consequence. She knew she had 
waited for Mackenzie’s name to be mentioned at 
luncheon and had blushed when she heard it, only, 
fortunately, nobody had seen her, not even the sharp- 
eyed twins. She would have resented it intensely if 
her interest and her blush had been noticed, and put 
down to personal attraction. It was not that at all. 
She rather disliked the man, with his keen, hawklike 
face, his piercing eyes, and his direct, unvarnished 
speech. He was the sort of man of whom a woman 
might have reason to be afraid if she were, by unac¬ 
countable mischance, attracted by him, and he by 
her. He would dominate her and she would be at 
least as much of a chattel as in the hands of a male 
Clinton. It was what he stood for that interested 
her, and she could not help comparing his life with 
that of her father and her brothers, or of Jim Gra¬ 
ham, much to the disadvantage of her own kind. 


182 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Her resentment, if it deserved that name, had fixed 
itself upon her father and brothers, and Jim shared 
in it. He was just the same as they were, making 
the little work incumbent on him as easy as possible 
and spending the best part of his life in the pursuits 
he liked best. She had come to the conclusion that 
there was no place for her in such a life as that. 
When Jim proposed to her, as she felt sure he would 
do when he was ready, she would refuse him. She 
felt now that she really could not go through with 
it, and her determination to refuse to marry Jim 
rose up in her mind and fixed itself as she sat in her 
chair under the tree. If he had been a poor man, 
with a profession to work at, she would have married 
him and found her happiness in helping him on. She 
wanted the life. The food and the raiment were 
nothing to her, either at Kencote or Mountfield. 


CHAPTER XIII 


RONAU) MACKENZIE 

Cicely rose from her seat and strolled across the 
lawn, through an iron gate and a flower-garden, and 
on to another lawn verging on the shrubberies. Joan 
and Nancy were employed here in putting tennis balls 
into a hole with the handles of walking sticks. Cicely 
rebuked them, for, according to his lights, the Squire 
was a strict Sabbatarian. 

‘‘Darling!” expostulated Joan, in a voice of 
pleading, “ we are not using putters and golf balls. 
There canH be any harm in this.” 

Cicely did not think there was, and passed on 
through the shrubbery walk to where a raised path 
skirting a stone wall afforded a view of the road 
along which Jim and Ronald Mackenzie would pres¬ 
ently be driving. 

She hardly knew why she had come. It was cer¬ 
tainly not to watch for Jim. And if there was any 
idea in her mind of catching a glimpse of Ronald 
Mackenzie, herself unobserved by him, so that she 
might by a flash gain some insight into the character 
of a man who had interested her, she was probably 
giving herself useless trouble, for it was not yet three 
o’clock and the two men were not likely to arrive 
for another half-hour or more. 


183 


184 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


But she had no sooner taken her stand by the 
stone wall and looked down at the road from under 
the shade of the great beech which overhung it, than 
Jim’s dog-cart swung round the corner, and Ronald 
Mackenzie, sitting by his side, had looked up and 
sent a glance from his bold dark eyes right through 
her. She had not had time to draw back; she had 
been fairly caught. She drew back now, and 
coloured with annoyance as she pictured to herself 
the figure she must have presented to him, a girl 
so interested in his coming and going that she must 
lie in wait for him, and take up her stand an hour or 
so before he might have been expected. At any 
rate, he should not find her submissively waiting for 
him when he drove up to the door. She would keep 
out of the way until tea-time, and he might find 
somebody else to entertain him. 

The shrubbery walk, which skirted the road, 
wound for over a mile round the park, and if she 
followed it she would come, by way of the kitchen 
gardens and stableyard, to the house again, and 
could regain her bedroom unseen, at the cost of a 
walk rather longer than she would willingly have 
undertaken on this hot afternoon. But it was the 
only thing to do. If she went back by the way she 
had come, she might meet Jim and his friend in the 
garden, and of course they would think she had 
come on purpose to see them. If she crossed 
the park she ran the risk of being seen. So she 
kept to the shelter of the trees, and followed the 


RONALD MACKENZIE 185 

windings of the path briskly, and in rather a bad 
temper. 

At a point about half-way round the circle, the 
dense shrubbery widened into a spinney, and cut 
through it transversely was a broad grass ride, which 
opened up a view of the park and the house. When 
Cicely reached this point she looked to her right, and 
caught her breath in her throat sharply, for she saw 
Ronald Mackenzie striding down the broad green 
path towards her. He was about fifty yards away, 
but it was impossible to pretend she had not seen 
him, or to go on without waiting for him to catch 
her up. Indeed, the moment he caught sight of her 
he waved his hand and called out, ‘‘ I thought I 
should catch you.” He then came up with a smile 
upon his face, and no apparent intention of apolo¬ 
gising for his obvious pursuit of her. 

What was the right attitude to take up towards a 
man who behaved like that? Cicely blushed, and 
felt both surprised and annoyed. But she was 
powerless to convey a hint of those feelings to him, 
and all he knew was that she had blushed. 

“ You shouldn’t have run away from me like that,” 
he said, as he shook hands with her and looked her 
straight in the face. “ I shan’t do you any harm. 
We will go back this way ”; and he walked on at a 
fairly smart rate by the way she had been going, and 
left her to adapt her pace to his, which she did, with 
the disgusted feeling that she was ambling along at 
an undignified trot. 


186 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 


She was aware that if she opened her mouth she 
would say just the one thing that she did not want 
to say, so she kept it closed, but was not saved by 
so doing, because he immediately said it for her. 
“ How did I know where to find you.? Well, I guessed 
you didn’t expect to be spied under that tree, and 
that you’d keep away for a bit. I didn’t want that, 
because I had come over on purpose to see you. So 
I cast my eye round the country—I’ve an eye for 
country—saw where you would be likely to go and 
the place to intercept you. So now you know all 
about it.” 

This was a little too much. Cicely found her 
tongue. “ Thank you,” she said, with dignity, “ I 
didn’t want to know all about it,” and then felt like 
a fool. 

“ Then you have something you didn’t want,” he 
replied coolly. “ But we won’t quarrel; there’s no 
time. Do you know what I think about you and 
about this place.? ” 

He looked down at her and waited for an answer; 
and an answer had to be given. She was not quite 
prepared, or it would be more accurate to say that 
she hardly dared, to say, “ No, and I don’t want to,” 
so she compromised weakly on No.” 

‘‘ Well, I’ll tell you. It seems to me just Paradise, 
this lovely, peaceful, luxurious English country, after 
the places I’ve been to and the life I’ve led. And as 
for you, you pretty little pink and white rose, you’re 
the goddess that lives in the heart of it. You’re the 


RONALD MACKENZIE 


187 


prettiest, most graceful creature on God’s earth, and 
you’re in the right setting.” 

Cicely felt like a helpless rabbit fascinated by a 
snake. Nothing that she had ever learned, either 
by direct precept from the old starling, or as the 
result of her own observation of life, had prepared 
her to cope with this. Outrageous as were his words 
and tone, she could only show that she resented them 
by implicitly accusing him of making love to her; 
and her flurried impulse was to shun that danger 
spot. 

She laughed nervously. “ You use very flowery 
language; I suppose you learned it in Tibet,” she 
said, and felt rather pleased with herself. 

“ One thing I learned in Tibet,” he answered, if I 
hadn’t learned it before, was that England is the most 
beautiful country in the world. I’m not sure that 
I wouldn’t give up all the excitement and adventure 
of my life to settle down in a place like Graham’s— 
or like this.” 

Cicely congratulated herself upon having turned 
the conversation. She was ready to talk on this 
subject. “ You wouldn’t care for it very long,” she 
said. ‘‘ It is stagnation. I feel sometimes as if I 
would give anything to get out of it.” 

He looked down at her with a smile. “ And what 
would you like to do if you could get out of it ” he 
asked. 

I should like to travel for one thing,” she said. 
‘‘ If I were a man I would. I wouldn’t be content to 


188 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


settle down in a comfortable country house to hunt 
foxes and shoot pheasants and partridges all my 
life.” 

“ Like Graham, eh.? Well, perhaps you are 
right. You’re going to marry Graham, aren’t 
you ? ” 

“ No,” she said shortly. 

“ He thinks you are,” he said, with a laugh. 
“ He’s a good fellow, Graham, but perhaps he takes 
too much for granted, eh? But I know you are not 
going to marry Graham. I only asked you to see 
what you would say. You are going to marry me, 
my little country flower.” 

“ Mr. Mackenzie! ” She put all the outraged 
surprise into her voice of which she was capable, and 
stopped short in the path. 

He stopped too, and faced her. His face was 
firmly set. “ I have no time to go gently,” he said. 
‘‘ I ask straight out for what I want, and I want you. 
Come now, don’t play the silly miss. You’ve got 
a man to deal with. I’ve done things already and 
I’m going to do more. You will have a husband 
you can be proud of.” 

He was the type of the conquering male as he stood 
before her, dark, lean, strong and bold-eyed. His 
speech, touched with a rough northern burr, broke 
down defences. He would never woo gently, not if 
he had a year to do it in. Men of his stamp do not 
ask their wives in marriage; they take them. 

Cicely went red and then white, and looked round 


RONALD MACKENZIE 189 

her helplessly. “ You can’t run away,” he said, and 
waited for her to speak. 

His silence was more insolently compelling than 
any words could have been. Her eyes were drawn 
to his in spite of herself, fluttered a moment, and 
rested there in fascinated terror. So the women in 
ages of violence and passion, once caught, sur¬ 
rendered meekly. 

“ You are mine,” he said, in a voice neither raised 
nor lowered. “ I said you should be when I first saw 
you. I’ll take care of you. And I’ll take care of 
myself for your sake.” 

Suddenly she found herself trembling violently. 
It seemed to be her limbs that were trembling, not 
she, and that she could not stop them. He put his 
arm around her. “ There, there! ” he said sooth¬ 
ingly. ‘‘ Poor little bird! I’ve frightened you. I 
had to, you know. But you’re all right now.” 

For answer she burst into tears, her hands to her 
face. He drew them away gently, mastering her 
with firm composure. “ It was a shock, wasn’t it ? ” 
he said in a low, vibrating monotone. “ But it had 
to be done in that way. Jim Graham doesn’t upset 
you in that way. I’ll be bound. But Jim Graham 
is a rich, comfortable vegetable; and I’m not exactly 
that. You don’t want to be either, do you.^* ” 

‘‘ No,” she said, drying her eyes. 

“ You want a mate you can be proud of,” he went 
on, still soothing her. ‘‘ Somebody who will do big 
things, and do them for your sake, eh.? That’s what 


190 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


I’m going to do for you, little girl. I’m famous 
already, so I find. But I’ll be more famous yet, 
and make you famous too. You’ll like that, won’t 
you.? ” 

He spoke to her as if she were a little child. His 
boasting did not sound like boasting to her. His 
strength and self-confidence pushed aside all the 
puny weapons with which she might have opposed 
him. She could not tell him that she did not love 
him. He had not asked for her love; he had asked 
for herself; or rather, he had announced his inten¬ 
tion of taking her. She was dominated, silenced, and 
he gave her no chance to say anything, except what 
he meant her to say. 

He took his arms from her. “We must go back 
now,” he said, “or they will wonder what has be¬ 
come of us.” He laughed suddenly. “ They were 
a little surprised when I ran away after you.” 

It occurred to her that they must have been con¬ 
siderably surprised. The thought added to her con¬ 
fusion. “ Oh, I can’t go back to them! ” she cried. 

“ No, no,” he said soothingly. “ You shall slip 
into the house by a back way. I shall say I couldn’t 
find you.” 

They were walking along the path, side by side. 
His muscular hands were pendant; he had at¬ 
tempted no further possession of her, had not tried 
to kiss her. Perhaps he knew that a kiss would have 
fired her to revolt, and once revolting she would be 
lost to him. Perhaps he was not guided by policy 


RONALD MACKENZIE 


191 


at all, but by the instinctive touch of his power over 
men—and women. 

Cicely was beginning to recover her nerve, but her 
thoughts were in a whirl. She was not angry; her 
chief desire was to go away by herself and think. 
In the meantime she wanted no further food for 
thought. But that was a matter not in her hands. 

“ I’m going away in a fortnight, you know,” he 
said. “ Back to Tibet. I left some things undone 
there.” 

“You only came home a month ago,” she said, 
clutching eagerly at a topic not alarmingly personal. 

“ I know. But I’m tired of it—the drawing-rooms 
and the women. I want to be doing. You know.” 

She thought she did know. The rough appeal 
thrown out in those two words found a way through 
her armour, which his insolent mastery had only 
dented and bruised. It gave her a better conceit of 
herself. This was a big man, and he recognised 
something of his own quality in her. At any rate, 
she would stand up to him. She would not be “ a 
silly miss.” 

“ Of course, you have surprised me very much,” 
she said, with an effort at even speech, which proba¬ 
bly came to him as hurried prattle. “ I can’t say 
what I suppose you want me to say at once. But 
if you will give me time—if you will speak to my 
father-” 

He broke in on her. “ Good heavens! ” he said, 
with a laugh. “ You don’t think I’ve got time for 



m THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


all that sort of thing, do you?—orange flowers and 
church bells and all the rest of it. Don’t you say a 
word to your father, or any one else. Do you hear? ” 

His roughness nerved her. “ Then what do you 
want me to do? ” she asked boldly. 

“ Do ? Why, come to London and marry me, of 
course. You’ve got the pluck. Or if you haven’t, 
you’re not what I thought you, and I don’t want 
you at all. There’s no time to settle anything now, 
and I’m off* to-morrow. If I stay longer, and come 
over here again with Graham, they will suspect 
something. Meet me to-night out here—this very 
spot, do you see? I’ll get out of the house and be 
over here at two o’clock. Then I’ll tell you what 
to do.” 

They had come to a little clearing, the entrance to 
a strip of planted ground which led to a gate in the 
walled kitchen garden, and so to the back regions of 
the house. She stood still and faced him. “ Do you 
think I am going to do that? ” she asked, her blue 
eyes looking straight into his. 

He had aroused her indignant opposition. What 
would he do now, this amazing and masterful man? 

He looked down at her with an odd expression in 
his face. It was protecting, tender, amused. ‘‘ Lit¬ 
tle shy flower! ” he said—he seemed to cling to that 
not very original metaphor—‘‘ I mustn’t forget how 
you have been brought up, in all this shelter and 
luxury, must I? It is natural to you, little girl, and 
I’ll keep you in it as far as I can. But you’ve got 


RONALD MACKENZIE 


193 


to remember what I am too. You must come out 
of your cotton wool sometimes. Life isn’t all softness 
and luxury.” 

Food and raiment! What had she been thinking 
of all the morning.? Her eyes fell. 

“ You can trust me, you know,” he said, still 
speaking softly. “ But you believe in daring, don’t 
you.? You must show a little yourself.” 

“It isn’t at all that I’m afraid,” she said weakly. 

“ Of course not. I know that,” he answered. “ It 
is simply that you don’t do such things here.” He 
waved his hand towards the corner of the big house, 
which could be seen through the trees. “ But you 
want to get out of it, you said.” 

Did she want to get out of it.? She was tired of 
the dull ease. She was of the Clintons, of the women 
who were kept under; but there were men Clintons 
behind her too, men who took the ease when it came 
to them, but did not put it in the first place, men 
of courage, men of daring. It was the love of adven¬ 
ture in her blood that made her answer, “ Perhaps 
I will come,” and then try to dart past him. 

He put out his arm to stop her. “ I’m not going 
to walk six miles here and back on the chance,” he 
said roughly. But she was equal to him this time. 
“ If you don’t think it worth while you need not 
come,” she said. “ I won’t promise.” Then she was 
gone. 

He walked back slowly to the garden. Jim Gra¬ 
ham was lying back in a basket chair, dressed in 


194 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


smart blue flannel and Russian leather boots, talking^ 
to Joan and Nancy. Through the open window of 
the library the top of the Squire’s head could be seen 
over the back of an easy-chair. 

Mackenzie joined the little group under the lime. 
“ Couldn’t find her,” he said shortly. 

“ She’ll turn up at tea-time,” said Jim equably. 

The clear eyes of the twins were fixed on Mac¬ 
kenzie. They had run round to the front of the house 
on hearing the wheels of Jim’s cart on the gravel. 
They wanted to see the great man he had brought 
with him, and they were not troubled with considera¬ 
tions of shyness. But the great man had taken no 
notice of them at all, standing on the gravel of the 
drive staring at him. 

He had jumped down from the cart and made off, 
directly, round the corner of the house. 

‘‘ Where is he going? ” asked the twins. 

“ He wants to show Cicely some drawings,” said 
Jim. “ He saw her in the shrubbery. Want a drive 
round to the stables, twankies ? ” 

Now the twins devoured Mackenzie with all their 
eyes. “ I am Joan Clinton, and this is my sister 
Nancy,” said Joan. “ Nobody ever introduces us 
to anybody that comes here, so we always introduce 
ourselves. How do you do? ” 

Mackenzie seemed to wake up. He shook hands 
with both twins. “ How do you do, young ladies,” 
he said with a smile. “ You seem very much 
alike.” 


RONALD MACKENZIE 


195 


‘‘ Not in character,” said Nancy. “ Miss Bird 
says that Joan would be a very well-behaved girl if 
it were not for me.” 

“ I’m sure you are both well behaved,” said 
Mackenzie. “ You look as if you never gave any 
trouble to anybody.” 

“ What we look and what we are are two very 
different things,” said Joan. ‘‘Aren’t they, 
Jim? ” 

“ Good Lord, I should think they were,” said 
Jim. He had been bustled off immediately after 
luncheon, and was lying back in his chair in an 
attitude inviting repose. He had rather hoped that 
Mackenzie, whose quick energy of mind and body 
were rather beyond his power to cope with, would 
have been off his hands for half an hour when he 
had announced his intention of going in search of 
Cicely. He would have liked to go in search of 
Cicely himself, but that was one of the things that 
he did no longer. He had nothing to do now but 
wait with what patience he could until his time came. 
He had a sort of undefined hope that Mackenzie 
might say something that would advance him with 
Cicely, praise him to her, cause her to look upon him 
with a little refreshment of her favour. But he had 
not welcomed the questions with which the twins 
had plied him concerning his guest. 

“ Jim wants to go to sleep,” said Nancy. “ Would 
you like to come up into the schoolroom, Mr. 
Mackenzie? We have a globe of the world.” 


196 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ We can find Cicely if you want to see her,” added 
Joan. 

Mackenzie laughed his rough laugh. “We won’t 
bother Miss Clinton,” he said. “ But I should like 
to see the globe of the world.” 

So the twins led him off proudly, chattering. Jim 
heard Joan say, “We have had a bishop in our 
schoolroom, but we would much rather have an ex¬ 
plorer,” but by the time they had crossed the lawn 
he was sleeping peacefully. 

If he had known it, it was hardly the time for him 
to sleep. 

“ If you’re ill, go to bed; if not, behave as usual,” 
was a Clinton maxim which accounted for Cicely’s 
appearance at the tea-table an hour later, when she 
would much rather have remained in her own room. 
The effort, no small one, of walking across the lawn 
in full view of the company assembled round the 
tea-table, as if nothing had happened to her within 
the last hour, braced her nerves. She was a shade 
paler than ordinary, but otherwise there was nothing 
in her appearance to arouse comment. Mackenzie 
sprang up from his chair as she approached and went 
forward to meet her. “ I tried to find you directly 
I came, Miss Clinton,” he said in his loud voice, 
which no course of civilisation would avail to subdue. 
“ I’ve brought those sketches I told you about last 
night.” 

Cicely breathed relief. She had not been told the 
pretext upon which he had started off in pursuit of 


RONALD MACKENZIE 


197 


her immediately upon his arrival, and had had 
terrifying visions of a reception marked by anxious 
and inquiring looks. But Jim greeted her with his 
painfully acquired air of accepted habit, and imme¬ 
diately, she was sitting between him and Mackenzie, 
looking at the bundle of rough pencil drawings put 
into her hands, outlines of rugged peaks, desolate 
plains, primitive hillside villages, done with abundant 
determination but little skill. She listened to Mac¬ 
kenzie’s explanations without speaking, and was re¬ 
lieved to hand over the packet to the Squire, who 
put on his glasses to examine them, and drew the 
conversation away from her. 

Mackenzie spoke but little to her after that. He 
dominated the conversation, much more so than on 
the previous evening, when there had been some little 
difficulty in extracting any account of his exploits 
from him. Now he was willing to talk of them, and 
he talked well, not exactly with modesty, but with 
no trace of boastful quality, such as would certainly 
have aroused the prejudices of his listeners against 
him. 

He talked like a man with whom the subject under 
discussion was the one subject in the world that in¬ 
terested him. One would have said that he had 
nothing else in his mind but the lust for strange 
places to conquer. He appeared to be obsessed by 
his life of travel, to be able to think of nothing else, 
even during this short interval in his years of 
adventure, and in this stay-at-home English com- 


198 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


pany whose thoughts were mostly bound up in the few 
acres around them. 

Cicely stole glances at him. Was he acting a 
carefully thought out plan, or had he really forgotten 
her very existence for the moment, while his thoughts 
winged their way to cruel, dark places, whose secrets 
he would wrest from them, the only places in which 
his bold, eager spirit could find its home? He radi¬ 
ated power. She was drawn to him, more than half 
against her will. He had called to her to share his 
life and his enterprise. Should she answer the call? 
It was in her mind that she might do so. 

He made no attempt to claim her after tea; but 
when the church bells began to ring from across the 
park, and she had to go to play for the evening 
service, he joined the little party of women—the 
Clinton men went to church once on Sundays, but 
liked their women to go twice—and sat opposite to 
her in the chancel pew, sometimes fixing her with 
a penetrating look, sometimes with his head lowered 
on his broad chest, thinking inscrutable thoughts, 
while the dusk crept from raftered roof to stone 
floor, and the cheap oil lamps and the glass-pro¬ 
tected candles in the pulpit and reading-desk 
plucked up yellow courage to keep off the darkness. 

The congregation sang a tuneful, rather seati- 
mental evening hymn in the twilight. They sang 
fervently, especially the maids and men in the 
chancel pews. Their minds were stirred to soothing 
and vaguely aspiring thoughts. Such hymns as this 


RONALD MACKENZIE 


199 


at the close of an evening service were the pleasantest 
part of the day’s occupations. 

The villagers went home to their cottages, talking 
a little more effusively than usual. The next morn¬ 
ing their work would begin again. The party from 
the great house hurried home across the park. The 
sermon had been a little longer than usual. They 
would barely have time to dress for dinner. 

Jim Graham’s dog-cart came round at half-past 
ten. The Squire, who had been agreeably aroused 
from his contented but rather monotonous existence 
by his unusual guest, pressed them to send it back 
to the stable for an hour. ‘‘ The women are going 
to bed,” he said—they were always expected to go 
upstairs punctually at half-past ten—“ we’ll go into 
my room.” 

But Mackenzie refused without giving Jim the op¬ 
portunity. “ I have a lot of work to do to-night,” 
he said. “ Don’t suppose I shall be in bed much 
before four; and I must leave early to-morrow.” 

So farewells were said in the big square hall. Mrs. 
Clinton and Cicely were at a side-table upon which 
were rows of silver bedroom candlesticks, Mrs. 
Clinton in a black evening dress, her white, plump 
neck and arms bare. Cicely, slim and graceful, in 
white. The men stood between them and the table 
in the middle of the hall, from which Dick was 
dispensing whisky and soda water; the Squire, big 
and florid, with a great expanse of white shirt front, 
Jim and Mackenzie in light overcoats with caps in 


200 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


their hands. Servants carried bags across from 
behind the staircase to the open door, outside of 
which Jim’s horse was scraping the gravel, the bright 
lamps of the cart shining on his smooth flanks. 

The Squire and Dick stood on the stone steps as 
the cart drove off, and then came back into the hall. 
Mrs. Clinton and Cicely, their candles lighted, were 
at the foot of the staircase. 

“ Well, that’s an interesting fellow,” said the 
Squire as the butler shut and bolted the hall door 
behind him. “ We’ll get him down to shoot if he’s in 
England next month.” 

‘‘ And see what he can do,” added Dick. 

Cicely went upstairs after her mother. The Squire 
and Dick went into the library, where a servant 
relieved them of their evening coats and handed 
them smoking-jackets, and the Squire a pair of 
worked velvet slippers. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE PLUNGE 

When Cicely had allowed the maid who was waiting 
for her to unfasten her bodice, she sent her away 
and locked the door after her. During the evening 
she had sketched in her mind a portrait of herself 
sitting by the open window and thinking things over 
calmly. It seemed to be the thing to do in the cir¬ 
cumstances. 

But she could not think calmly. She could not 
even command herself sufficiently to go on with her 
undressing. The evening had been one long strain 
on her nerves, and now she could only throw herself 
on her bed and burst into tears. She had an impulse 
to go in to her mother and tell her everything, and 
perhaps only the fact that for the moment her 
physical strength would not allow her to move held 
her back. 

After a time she became quieter, but did not regain 
the mastery of her brain. She seemed to be swayed 
by feeling entirely. The picture of her mother, calm 
and self-contained, kneeling at her long nightly de¬ 
votions, faded, and in its place arose the image of 
the man who had suddenly shouldered his way into 
her life and with rude hands torn away the trappings 
of convention that had swathed it. 


201 


202 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


He attracted her strongly. He stood for a broad 
freedom, and her revolt against the dependence in 
which she lived was pointed by his contempt for the 
dull, easy, effortless life of the big country house. 
Her mind swayed towards him as she thought of 
what he had to offer her in exchange—adventure in 
unknown lands; glory, perhaps not wholly reflected, 
for there had been women explorers before, and her 
strong, healthy youth made her the physical equal 
of any of them; comradeship in place of subjection. 
She weighed none of these things consciously; she 
simply desired them. 

There came to her the echo of her brother’s speech 
as she had come up the stairs: “ And let us see what 
he can do.” He stood before her in his rugged 
strength, not very well dressed, his greying head 
held upright, his nostrils slightly dilated, his keen 
eyes looking out on the world without a trace of 
self-consciousness; and beside him stood Dick in his 
smart clothes and his smoothed down hair, coolly 
ignoring all the big things the man had done, and 
proposing to hold over his opinion of him till he saw 
whether he could snap off a gun quickly enough to 
bring down a high pheasant or a driven partridge. 
If he could pass that test he would be accepted 
without further question as “a good fellow.” His 
other achievements, or perhaps more accurately the 
kind of renown they had brought him, would be set 
against his lack of the ordinary gentleman’s up¬ 
bringing. If he could not, he would still be something 


THE PLUNGE 


203 


of an outsider though all the world should acclaim 
him. Dick’s careless speech—she called it stupid— 
affected her strangely. It lifted her suitor out of the 
ruck, and made him bulk bigger. 

She got up from her bed and took her seat by the 
open window, according to precedent. She had seen 
herself, during the evening, sitting there looking out 
on to the moonlit garden, asking herself quietly, 
‘‘ What am I going to do ? ” weighing the pros and 
cons, stiffening her mind, and her courage. And 
she tried now to come to a decision, but could not 
come anywhere near to laying the foundation of one. 
She had not the least idea what she was going to 
do, nor could she even discover what she wanted 
to do. 

She got up and walked about the room, but that 
did not help her. She knelt down and said her 
prayers out of a little well-worn book of devotions, 
and made them long ones. But it was nothing 
more than repeating words and phrases whose 
meaning slipped away from her. She prayed in her 
own words for guidance, but none came. There ex¬ 
isted only the tumult of feeling. 

She heard her father and brother come up to bed 
and held her breath in momentary terror, then 
breathed relief at the thought that if they should, 
unaccountably, break into her room, which they were 
not in the least likely to do, they could not know 
what was happening to her, or make her tell them. 
They went along the corridor talking loudly. She 


204 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


had often been disturbed from her first sleep by the 
noise the men made coming up to bed. She heard 
a sentence from her father as they passed her door. 
“ They would have to turn out anyhow if anything 
happened to me.” 

Dick’s answer was inaudible, but she knew quite 
well what they were discussing. It had been dis¬ 
cussed before her mother and herself, and even the 
twins and Miss Bird, though not before the servants, 
during the last few days. Lord and Lady Alistair 
MacLeod, she a newly wed American, had motored 
through Kencote, lunched at the inn and fallen in 
love with the dower-house. Lady Alistair —he would 
have nothing to do with it—had made an offer 
through the Squire’s agent for a lease of the house, 
at a rental about four times its market value. The 
Squire did not want the money, but business was 
business. And the MacLeods would be “ nice people 
to have about the place.” All that stood in the 
way was Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura. They could 
not be turned out unless they were willing to go, 
but the Squire knew very well that they would go if 
he told them to. There was a nice little house in the 
village which would be the very thing for them if he 
decided to accept the tempting offer. He would do it 
up for them. After all, the dower-house was much 
too large and there were only two of them left. So it 
had been discussed whether Aunt Ellen, at the age of 
ninety-three, and Aunt Laura, at the age of seventy- 
five, should be notified that the house in which they 


THE PLUNGE 


205 


had spent the last forty years of their lives, and in 
which their four sisters had died, was wanted for 
strangers. 

That was not the only thing that had been dis¬ 
cussed. The question of what would be done in 
various departments of family and estate business 
when the Squire should have passed away—^his 
prospective demise being always referred to by the 
phrase, “ if anything should happen to me ”—was 
never shirked in the least; and Dick, who would 
reign as Squire in his stead, until the far off day 
when something should happen to Jiirriy took his part 
in the discussion as a matter of course. These things 
were and would be; there was no sense in shutting 
one’s eyes to them. And one of the things that 
would take place upon that happening was that Mrs. 
Clinton, and Cicely, if she were not married, and the 
twins, would no longer have their home at Kencote, 
unless Dick should be unmarried and should invite 
them to go on living in his house. He would have 
no legal right to turn Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura 
out of the dower-house, if they still remained alive, 
but it had been settled ever since the last death 
amongst the sisters that they would make way. It 
would only be reasonable, and was taken for 
granted. 

And now, as it seemed, her father and brother had 
made up their minds to exercise pressure—so little 
would be needed—to turn out the poor old ladies, 
not for the sake of those who might have a claim^ 


206 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


on their consideration, but for strangers who would 
pay handsomely and would be nice people to have 
about the place. Cicely burned with anger as she 
thought of it. 

Two o’clock struck from the clock in the stable 
turret. Cicely opened her door softly, crept along 
the corridor and through a baize door leading to a 
staircase away from the bedrooms of the house. At 
the foot of it was a door opening into the garden, 
which she was prepared to unlock and unbolt with 
infinite care to avoid noise. But the carelessness 
of a servant had destroyed the need of such caution. 
The door was unguarded, and with an unpleasant 
little shock she opened it and went out. 

The night was warm, and the lawns and trees and 
shrubs of the garden lay in bright moonlight. She 
hurried, wrapped in a dark cloak, to the place from 
which she had fled from Mackenzie in the afternoon. 
She felt an impulse of shrinking as she saw his tall 
figure striding up and down on the grass, but she 
put it away from her and went forward to meet 
him. 

He gave a low cry as he turned and saw her. “ My 
brave little girl! ” he said, and laid his hands on her 
shoulders for a moment, and looked into her face. 
He attempted no further love-making; his tact 
seemed equal to his daring. “ We have come here 
to talk,” he said. “When we have made our ar¬ 
rangements you shall go straight back. I wouldn’t 


THE PLUNGE 


m 

have asked you to come out here like this if there 
had been any other way.” 

She felt grateful. Her self-respect was safe with 
him. He understood her. 

“Will you come with me.?” he asked, and she 
answered, “ Yes.” 

A light sprang into his eyes. “ My brave little 
queen of girls! ” he said, but held himself back from 
her. 

“ What time can you get out of the house without 
being missed for an hour or two.? ” he asked. 

She stood up straight and made a slight gesture 
as if brushing something away, and thenceforward 
answered him in as matter-of-fact a way as he ques¬ 
tioned her. 

“ In the afternoon, after lunch,” she said. 

“ Very well. There is a train from Bathgate at 
four o’clock. Can you walk as far as that.? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“ You can’t go from here, and you can’t drive. 
So you must walk. Is there any chance of your 
being recognised at Bathgate.? ” 

“ I am very likely to be recognised.” 

He thought for a moment. “Well, it can’t be 
helped,” he said. “ If there is any one in the train 
you know you must say you are going up to see 
Mrs. Walter Clinton. Graham has told me all about 
her and your brother.” 

“ I shan’t be able to take any luggage with me,” 
she said. 


208 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ No. That is a little awkward. We must trust 
to chance. Luck sides with boldness. You can 
buy what you want in London. I have plenty of 
money, and nothing will please me better than to 
spend it on you, little girl.” His tone and his eyes 
became tender for a moment. “ I shall be on the 
platform in London to meet you,” he said. “ I shall 
be surprised to see you there until you tell me there 
is nobody to fear. I hate all this scheming, but it 
can’t be helped. We must get a start, and in two 
days we shall be married. Don’t leave any word. 
You can write from London to say you are going to 
marry me. I’ll do the rest when we are man and 
wife.” 

Cicely’s eyes dropped as she asked, “ Where shall 
I be till—till-” 

“Till we’re married My little girl I It won’t 
be very long. There is a good woman I know. I’ll 
take you there and she will look after you. I shall 
be near. Leave it all to me and don’t worry. 
Have you got money for your journey? ” 

“ Yes, I have enough.” 

“ Very well. Now go back, and think of me bless¬ 
ing the ground you walk on. You’re so sweet, and 
you’re so brave. You’re the wife for me. Will you 
give me one kiss ? ” 

She turned her head quickly. “ No,” he said at 
once. “ I won’t ask for it; not till you are mine 
altogether.” 

But she put up her face to him in the moonlight. 



THE PLUNGE 


^i09 


“ I’m yours now,” she said. “ I have given myself 
to you,” and he kissed her, restraining his roughness, 
turning away immediately without another word to 
stride down the grass path into the darkness of the 
trees. 

Cicely looked after him for an instant and then 
went back to the house and crept up to her room. 


CHAPTER XV 


BLOOMSBURY 

Mackenzie met her at the London terminus. She 
had seen no one she knew either at the station at 
Bathgate or in the train. She was well dressed, in 
a tailor-made coat and skirt and a pretty hat. She 
got out of a first-class carriage and looked like a 
young woman of some social importance, travelling 
alone for once in a way, but not likely to be allowed 
to go about London alone when she reached the end 
of her journey. She was quite composed as she saw 
Mackenzie’s tall figure coming towards her, and 
shook hands with him as if he were a mere acquaint¬ 
ance. 

“ I have seen nobody I know,” she said, and then 
immediately added, “ I must send a telegram to my 
mother. I can’t leave her in anxiety for a whole 
night.” 

He frowned, but not at her. “ You can’t do that,” 
he said, “you don’t want the post-office people to 
know.” 

“ I have thought of that. I will say ‘ Have come 
up to see Muriel. Writing to-night.’ It isn’t true, 
but I will tell them afterwards why I did it.” 

“Will that satisfy them.?” 

I am deceiving them anyhow.” 

210 


BLOOMSBURY 


211 


“ Oh, I don’t mean that. Will they think it all 
right—your coming up to your sister-in-law.?* ” 

No, they will be very much surprised. But the 
post-office people will not gather anything.” 

“ They will wire at once to your brother. You 
had much better leave it till to-morrow.” 

“ No, I can’t do that,” she said. “ I will wire just 
before eight o’clock. Then a return wire will not go 
through before the morning.” 

“ Yours might not get through to-night.” 

“ Oh yes, it will. They would take it up to the 
house whatever time it came.” 

“ Very well,” he said. “ Now come along,” and he 
hailed a hansom. 

“ Please don’t think me tiresome,” she said, when 
they were in the cab, “ but there is another thing I 
must do. I must write to my mother so that she 
gets my letter the very first thing to-morrow 
morning.” 

He gave an exclamation of impatience. “ You 
can’t do that,” he said again. “ The country mails 
have already gone.” 

“ I can send a letter by train to Bathgate. I will 
send it to the hotel there with a message that it is 
to be taken over to Kencote the first thing in the 
morning.” 

“ You are very resourceful. It may give them 
time to get on to our track, before we are married.” 

“ I have promised to marry you,” she said simply. 
It was she who now seemed bold, and not he. 


THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


‘‘ I don’t see how they could get here in time,” he 
said grudgingly. “ Graham only knows the address 
of my club, and they don’t know there where I live.” 
He brightened up again. Very well, my queen,” 
he said, smiling down at her. ‘‘ You shall do what 
you like. Write your letter—^let it be a short one— 
when you get in, and we will send that and the wire 
when we go out to dinner.” 

They drove to a dingy-looking house in one of the 
smaller squares of Bloomsbury. During the short 
journey he became almost boisterous. All the 
misgivings that had assailed her since they had last 
parted, the alternate fits of courage and of frightened 
shrinking, had passed him by. This was quite 
plain, and she was right in attributing his mood 
partly to his joy in having won her, partly to his love 
of adventure. It was an added pleasure to him to 
surmount obstacles in winning her. If his wooing 
had run the ordinary course, the reason for half his 
jubilation would have disappeared. She felt his 
strength, and, woman-like, relinquished her own 
doubts and swayed to his mood. 

‘‘ You have begun your life of adventure, little 
girl,” he said, imprisoning her slender hand in his 
great muscular one, and looking down at her with 
pride in his eyes. She had an impulse of exhilara¬ 
tion, and smiled back at him. 

The rooms to which he took her, escorted by a 
middle-aged Scotswoman with a grim face and a 
silent tongue, were on the first floor—a big sitting- 


BLOOMSBURY 


21S 


room, clean, but, to her eyes, inexpressibly dingy 
and ill-furnished, and a bedroom behind folding 
doors. 

“ Mrs. Fletcher will give you your breakfast here,” 
he said, “ but we will lunch and dine out. We will 
go out now and shop when you are ready.” 

She went into the bedroom and stood by the win¬ 
dow. Fright had seized her again. What was she 
doing here? The woman who had come from her 
dark, downstairs dwelling-place to lead the way to 
these dreadful rooms, had given her one glance but 
spoken no word. What must she think of her? She 
could hear her replying in low monosyllables to Mac¬ 
kenzie’s loud instructions, through the folding 
doors. 

Again the assurance and strength and determina¬ 
tion which he exhaled came to her aid. She had 
taken the great step, and must not shrink from 
the consequences. He would look after her. She 
washed her hands and face—no hot water had been 
brought to her—and went back to the sitting-room. 
“I am hoping you will be comfortable here, miss,” 
the woman said to her. “ You must ask for any¬ 
thing you want.” 

She did not smile, but her tone was respectful, 
and she looked at Cicely with eyes not unfriendly. 
And, after all, the rooms were clean—for London. 

Mackenzie took her to a big shop in Holborn and 
stayed outside while she made her purchases. She 
had not dared to bring with her even a small hand- 


214 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


bag, and she had to buy paper on which to write her 
letter to her mother. 

‘‘ I lived in Mrs. Fletcher’s rooms before I went to 
Tibet,” Mackenzie said as they went back to the 
house. “ I tried to get them when I came back— 
but no such luck. Fortunately they fell vacant on 
Saturday. We’ll keep them on for a bit after we’re 
married. Must make ourselves comfortable, you 
know.” 

She stole a glance at him. His face was beaming. 
She had thought he had taken her to that dingy, 
unknown quarter as a temporary precaution. Would 
he really expect her to make her home in such a 
place ? 

She wrote her letter to her mother at the table 
in the sitting-room. Mrs. Fletcher had ' rought her 
up a penny bottle of ink and a pen with a J nib 
suffering from age. Mackenzie walked about the 
room as she wrote, and it was difficult for her to 
collect her thoughts. She gave him the note to read, 
with a pretty gesture of confidence. It was very 
short. 

“ My own darling Mother, —I have not come to 
London to see Muriel, but to marry Ronald Mac¬ 
kenzie. I said what I did in my telegram because of 
the post-office. I am very happy, and will write 
you a long letter directly we are married.—Always 
your very loving daughter, 


“ Cicely.” 


BLOOMSBURY 


215 


“ Brave girl! ” he said as he returned it to 
her. 

She gave a little sob. “ I wish I had not had to 
go away from her like that,” she said. 

“ Don’t cry, little girl,” he said kindly. “ It was 
the only way.” 

She dried her eyes and sealed up the note. She 
had wondered more than once since he had carried 
her off her feet why it was the only way. 

They carried through the business of the letter 
and the telegram and drove to a little French 
restaurant in Soho to dine. The upstairs room was 
full of men and a few women, some French, more 
English. Everybody stared at her as she entered, 
and she blushed hotly. And some of them recog¬ 
nised Mackenzie and whispered his name. The men 
were mostly journalists, of the more literary sort, 
one or two of them men of note, if she had known 
it. But to her they looked no better than the class 
she would have labelled vaguely as “ people in shops.” 
They were as different as possible from her brothers 
and her brothers’ friends, sleek, well-dressed men with 
appropriate clothes for every occasion, and a uni¬ 
form for the serious observance of dinner which she 
had never imagined a man without, except on an 
unavoidable emergency. She had never once in her 
life dined in the same frock as she had worn during 
the day and hardly ever in the company of men in 
morning clothes. 

This cheap restaurant, where the food and cooking 


S16 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


were good but the appointments meagre, struck her 
as strangely as if she had been made to eat in a 
kitchen. That it did not strike Mackenzie in that 
way was plain from his satisfaction at having intro¬ 
duced her to it. “ Just as good food here as at the 
Carlton or the Savoy,” he said inaccurately, “ at 
about a quarter of the price; and no fuss in dress¬ 
ing-up ! ” 

She enjoyed it rather, after a time. There was a 
sense of adventure in dining in such a place, even 
in dining where nobody had thought of dressing, 
although dressing for dinner was not one of the con¬ 
ventions she had wished to run away from; it was 
merely a habit of cleanliness and comfort. Mac¬ 
kenzie talked to her incessantly in a low voice—they 
were sitting at a little table in a corner, rather apart 
from the rest. He talked of his travels, and fas¬ 
cinated her; and every now and then, when he seemed 
furthest away, his face would suddenly soften and 
he would put in a word of encouragement or grati¬ 
tude to her. She felt proud of having the power 
to make such a man happy. They were comrades, 
and she wanted to share his life. At present it 
seemed to be enough for him to talk to her. He had 
not as yet made any demand on her for a return of 
confidence. In fact, she had scarcely spoken a word 
to him, except in answer to speech of his. He had 
won her and seemed now to take her presence for 
granted. He had not even told her what arrange¬ 
ments he had made for their marriage, or where it 


BLOOMSBURY 


21T 

was to be; nor had he alluded in any way to the 
course of their future life or travels, except in the 
matter of Mrs. Fletcher’s room in Bloomsbury. 

“ When are we going to Tibet again.? ” She 
asked him the question point blank, as they were 
drinking their coffee, and Mackenzie was smoking 
a big briar pipe filled with strong tobacoo. 

He stared at her in a moment’s silence. Then he 
laughed. “ Tibet! ” he echoed. “ Oh, I think now 
I shan’t be going to Tibet for some months. But I 
shall be taking you abroad somewhere before then. 
However, there will be plenty of time to talk of all 
that.” Then he changed the subject. 

He drove her back to her rooms and went upstairs 
with her. It was about half-past nine o’clock. “ I 
have to go and meet a man at the Athenaeum at ten,” 
he said. “ Hang it! But I will stay with you for a 
quarter of an hour, and I dare say you won’t be sorry 
to turn in early.” 

He sat himself down in a shabby armchair on one 
side of the fireless grate. He was still smoking his 
big pipe. Cicely stood by the table. 

He looked up at her. “ Take off your hat,” he 
said, “ I want to see your beautiful hair. It was the 
first thing I noticed about you.” 

She obeyed, with a blush. He smiled his approval. 
“ Those soft waves,” he said, “ and the gold in it! 
You are a beautiful girl, my dear. I can tell you I 
shall be very proud of you. I shall want to show 
you about everywhere.” 


218 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


He hitched his chair towards her and took hold of 
her hand. “ Do you think you are going to love me 
a little bit ? ” he asked. 

She blushed again, and looked down. Then she 
lifted her eyes to his. “I don’t think you know 
quite what you have made me do,” she said. 

He dropped her hand. “Do you regret it.^ ” he 
asked sharply. 

She did not answer his question, but her eyes still 
held his. “ I have never been away from home in 
my life,” she said, “ without my father or mother. 
Now I have left them without a word, to come to 
you. You seem to take that quite as a matter of 
course.” 

The tears came into her eyes, although she looked 
at him steadily. He sprang up from his chair and 
put his hand on her shoulder. “ My poor little girl! ” 
he said, “ you feel it. Of course you feel it. You’ve 
behaved like a heroine, but you’ve had to screw up 
your courage. I don’t want you to think of all that. 
That is why I haven’t said anything about it. You 
mustn’t break down.” 

But she had broken down, and she wept freely, 
while he put his arm round her and comforted her 
as he might have comforted a child. Presently her 
sobbing ceased. “ You are very kind to me,” she 
said. “ But you won’t keep me away from my own 
people, will you—after—after-” 

“After we are married? God bless me, no. And 
they won’t be angry with you—at least, not for 



BLOOMSBURY 


219 


long. Don’t fear that. Leave it all to me. We 
shall be married to-morrow. I’ve arranged every¬ 
thing.” 

“ You have not told me a word about that,” she 
said forlornly. 

“ I didn’t mean to tell you a word until to-morrow 
came,” he said. “ You are not to brood.” 

“ You mean to rush me into everything,” she said, 
“ If I am to be the companion to you that I want to 
be, you ought to take me into your confidence.” 

“ Why, there! ” he said, “ I believe I ought. 
You’re brave. You’re not like other girls. You can 
imagine that I have had a busy day. I have a 
special license, signed by no less a person than the 
Archbishop of Canterbury. Think of that! And 
we are going to be married in a church. I knew 
you would like that; and I like it better too. You 
see I have been thinking of you all the time. Now 
you mustn’t worry any more.” He patted her hand. 
“ Go to bed and get a good sleep. I’ll come round 
at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and we’re to be 
married at eleven. Then a new life begins, and by 
the Lord I’ll make it a happy one for you. Come, 
give me a smile before I go.” 

She had no difficulty in doing that now. He took 
her chin in his fingers, turned her face up to his 
and looked into her eyes earnestly. Then he left 
her. 

She had finished her breakfast, which had been 
cleared away, when he came in to her the next morn- 


220 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


ing. She was sitting in a chair by the empty grate 
with her hands in her lap, and she looked pale. 

Mackenzie had on a frock coat, and laid a new 
silk hat and a new pair of gloves on the table as he 
greeted her with unsentimental cheerfulness. 

“Will you sit down?” she said, regarding him 
with serious eyes. “ I want to ask you some 
questions.” 

He threw a shrewd glance at her. “ Ask away,” 
he said in the same loud, cheerful tone, and took his 
seat opposite to her, carefully disposing of the skirts 
of his coat, which looked too big even for his big 
frame. 

“ I have been thinking a great deal,” she said. “ I 
want to know exactly what my life is to be if I 
marry you.” 

“ If you marry me! ” he took up her words. “ You 
are going to marry me.” 

“You said something last night,” she went on, 
“ which I didn’t quite understand at the time; and 
I am not sure that you meant me to. Are you going 
to take me with you to Tibet, and on your other 
journeys, or do you want to leave me behind—^here? ” 
There was a hint of the distaste she felt for her sur¬ 
roundings in the slight gesture that accompanied the 
last word. But she looked at him out of clear, blue, 
uncompromising eyes. 

He did not return her look. “ Here ? ” he echoed, 
looking round him with some wonder. “ What is the 
matter with this ? ” 


BLOOMSBURY 


221 


“ Then you do mean to leave me here.” 

“ Look here, my dear,” he said, looking at her 
now. “ I am not going to take you to Tibet, or on 
any of my big journeys. I never had the slightest 
intention of doing so, and never meant you to think 
I had. A pretty thing if I were to risk the life of 
the one most precious to me, as well as my own, in 
such journeys as I take! ” 

“ Then what about me ? ” asked Cicely. “ What 
am I to do while you are away, risking your own 
life, as you say, and away perhaps for two or three 
years together ? ” 

“Would you be very anxious for me.^ ” he asked 
her, with a tender look, but she brushed the question 
aside impatiently. 

“ I am to live alone, while you go away,” she said, 
“ live just as dull a life as I did before, only away 
from my own people, and without anything that 
made my life pleasant in spite of its dulness. Is that 
what you are offering me.^^ ” 

“ No, no,” he said, trying to soothe her. “ I want 
you to live in the sweetest little country place. 
We’ll find one together. You needn’t stay here a 
minute longer than you want to, though when we 
are in London together it will be convenient. I want 
to think of you amongst your roses, and to come 
back to you and forget all the loneliness and hard¬ 
ships. I want a home, and you in it, the sweetest 
wife ever a man had.” 

“ I don’t want that,” she said at once. “ You are 


222 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


offering me nothing that I didn’t have before, and I 
left it all to come to you—to share the hardships 
and—and—I would take away the loneliness.” 

“ You are making too much of my big journeys,” 
he broke in on her eagerly. “ That is the trouble. 
Now listen to me. I shall be starting for Tibet in 
March, and-” 

‘‘ Did you know that when you told me you were 
going in a fortnight.? ” she interrupted him. 

“ Let me finish,” he said, holding up his hand. ‘‘ It 
is settled now that I am going to Tibet in March, 
and I shan’t be away for more than a year. Until 
then we will travel together. I want to go to 
Switzerland almost directly to test some instruments. 
You will come with me, and you can learn to climb. 
I don’t mind that sort of hardship for you. At the 
end of October we will go to America. I hadn’t 
meant to go, but I want money now—for you—and 
I can get it there. That’s business; and for 
pleasure we will go anywhere you like—Spain, 
Algiers, Russia—Riviera, if you like, though I don’t 
care for that sort of thing. When I go to Tibet I’ll 
leave you as mistress of a little house that you may 
be proud of, and you’ll wait for me there. When I 
get back we’ll go about together again, and as far as 
I can see I shan’t have another big job to tackle for 
some time after that—a year, perhaps two years, 
perhaps more.” 

She was silent for a moment, thinking. “ Come 
now,” he said, “ that’s not stagnation. Is it.? ” 



BLOOMSBURY 


22S 


“ No,” she said unwillingly. “ But it isn’t what I 
came to you for.” She raised her eyes to his. “ You 
know it isn’t what I came to you for.” 

His face grew a little red. “ You came to me,” he 
said in a slower, deeper voice, looking her straight 
in the eyes, “ because I wanted you. I want you 
now and I mean to have you. I want you as a wife. 
I will keep absolutely true to you. You will be the 
only woman in the world to me. But my work is my 
work. You will have no more say in that than I 
think good for you. You will come with me wherever 
I think well to take you, and I shall be glad enough 
to have you. Otherwise you will stay behind and 
look after my home—and, I hope, my children.” 

Her face was a deep scarlet. She knew now what 
this marriage meant to him. What it had meant to 
her, rushing into it so blindly, seemed a foolish, far 
off thing. Her strongest feeling was a passionate 
desire for her mother’s presence. She was helpless, 
alone with this man, from whom she felt a revulsion 
that almost overpowered her. 

He sat for a full minute staring at her downcast 
face, his mouth firmly set, a slight frown on his 
brows. 

“ Come now,” he said more roughly. “ You don’t 
really know what you want. But I know. Trust 
me, and before God, I will make you happy.” 

She hid her face in her hands. “ Oh, I want to go 
home,” she cried. 

He shifted in his chair. The lines of his face did 


^4 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


not relax. He must set himself to master this 
mood. He knew he had the power, and he must 
exercise it once for all. The mood must not recur 
again, or if it did it must not be shown to him. 

And there is no doubt at all that he would have 
mastered it. But as he opened his mouth to speak. 
Cicely sitting there in front of him, crying, with a 
white face and strained eyes, there were voices on 
the stairs, the door opened, and Dick and Jim Gra¬ 
ham came into the room. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE PURSUIT 

Cicely had not been missed from home until the 
evening. At tea-time she was supposed to be at the 
dower-house, or else at the Rectory. It was only 
when she had not returned at a quarter to eight, that 
the maid who waited upon her and her mother told 
Mrs. Clinton that she was not in her room. 

‘‘Where on earth can she be?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Clinton. Punctuality at meals being so rigidly ob¬ 
served it was unprecedented that Cicely should not 
have begun to dress at a quarter to eight. At ten 
minutes to eight Mrs. Clinton was convinced that 
some accident had befallen her. At five minutes to, 
she tapped at the door of the Squire’s dressing-room. 
“ Edward,” she called, “ Cicely has not come home 
yet.” 

“ Come in! Come in! ” called the Squire. He was 
in his shirt sleeves, paring his nails. 

“I am afraid something has happened to her,” 
said Mrs. Clinton anxiously. 

“ Now, Nina, don’t fuss,” said the Squire. “ What 
can possibly have happened to her? She must be at 
the dower-house, though, of course, she ought to be 
home by this time. Nobody in this house is ever 
punctual but myself. I am always speaking about it. 

225 


226 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


You must see that the children are in time for meals. 
If nobody is punctual the whole house goes to 
pieces.” 

Mrs. Clinton went downstairs into the morning- 
room, where they were wont to assemble for dinner. 
Dick was there already, reading a paper. “ Cicely 
has not come home yet,” she said to him. 

“ By Jove, she’ll catch it,” said Dick, and went on 
reading his paper. 

Mrs. Clinton went to the window and drew the 
curtain aside. It was not yet quite dark and she 
could see across the park the footpath by which 
Cicely would come from the dower-house. But there 
was no one there. Mrs. Clinton’s heart sank. She 
knew that something had happened. Cicely would 
never have stayed out as late as this if she 
could have helped it. She came back into the 
room and rang the bell. I must send down,” she 
said. 

Dick put his paper aside and looked up at her. 
‘‘ It is rather odd,” he said. 

The butler came into the room, and the Squire 
immediately behind him. “ Edward, I want some one 
to go down to the dower-house and see if Cicely has 
been there,” Mrs. Clinton said. “ I am anxious about 
her.” 

The Squire looked at her for a moment. “ Send 
a man down to the dower-house to ask if Miss Clinton 
has been there this afternoon,” he said, and if she 
hasn’t, tell him to go to the Rectory.” 


THE PURSUIT 


227 


The butler left the room, but returned immediately 
with Cicely’s telegram. It was one minute to eight 
o’clock. He hung on his heel after handing the 
salver to Mrs. Clinton and then left the room to 
carry out his previous instructions. It was not his 
place to draw conclusions, but to do as he was 
told. 

Mrs. Clinton read the telegram and handed it to 
the Squire, searching his face as he read it. “ What, 
the devil! ” exclaimed the Squire, and handed it to 
Dick. 

The big clock in the hall began to strike. Porter 
threw open the door again. ‘‘ Dinner is served, 
ma’am,” he said. 

“ You needn’t send down to the dower-house,” 
Dick said, raising his eyes from the paper. “ Miss 
Clinton has gone up to stay with Mrs. Walter.” 
Then he offered his arm to his mother to lead her 
out of the room. 

“ Shut the door,” shouted the Squire, and the door 
was shut. “ What on earth does it mean ? ” he asked, 
in angry amazement. 

“ Better have gone in to dinner,” said Dick. “ I 
don’t know.” 

Mrs. Clinton was white, and said nothing. The 
Squire turned to her. ‘‘ What does it mean, Nina? ” 
he asked again. “ Did you know anything about 
this? ” 

“ Of course mother didn’t know,” said Dick. 
“ There’s something queer. It’s too late to send a 


228 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


wire. I’ll go up by the eleven o’clock train and 
find out all about it. Better go in now.” He laid 
the telegram carelessly on a table. 

“ Don’t leave it about,” said the Squire. 

“ Better leave it there,” said Dick, and offered his 
arm to his mother again. 

They went into the dining-room, only a minute 
late. 

“ Tell Higgs to pack me a bag for two nights,” 
said Dick when the Squire had mumbled a grace, 
“and order my cart for ten o’clock. I’m going up 
to London. I shan’t want anybody.” 

Then, as long as the servants were in the room 
they talked as usual. At least Dick did, with fre¬ 
quent mention of Walter and Muriel and some of 
Cicely. The Squire responded to him as well as he 
was able, and Mrs. Clinton said nothing at all. But 
that was nothing unusual. 

When they were alone at last, the Squire burst out, 
but in a low voice, “What on earth does it mean.? 
Tell me what it means, Dick.” 

“ She hasn’t had a row with any one, has she, 
mother? ” asked Dick, cracking a walnut. 

Mrs. Clinton moistened her lips. “ With whom? ” 
she asked. 

“ I know it’s very unlikely. I suppose she’s got 
some maggot in her head. Misunderstood, or 
something. You never know what girls are going 
to do next. She has been rather mopy lately. I’ve 
noticed it.” 


THE PURSUIT 


229 


“ She has not seen Muriel since she was married,” 
said Mrs. Clinton. “ She has missed her.” 

‘‘ Pah! ” spluttered the Squire. “ How dare she 
go off like that without a word? What on earth can 
you have been thinking of to let her, Nina? And 
what was Miles doing? Miles must have packed her 
boxes. And who drove her to the station? When 
did she go? Here we are, sitting calmly here and 
nobody thinks of asking any of these questions.” 

“ It was Miles who told me she had not come back,” 
said Mrs. Clinton. “ She was as surprised as I was.” 

Ring the bell, Dick,” said the Squire. 

“ I think you had better go up, mother, and see 
what she took with her,” said Dick. “ Don’t say 
anything to anybody but Miles, and tell her to keep 
quiet.” 

Mrs. Clinton went out of the room. Dick closed 
the door which he had opened for her, came back to 
the table, and lit a cigarette. ‘‘ There’s something 
queer, father,” he said, “ but we had better make it 
seem as natural as possible. I shouldn’t worry if I 
were you. I’ll find out all about it and bring her 
back.” 

“ Worry! ” snorted the Squire. “ It’s Cicely who 
is going to worry. If she thinks she is going to 
behave like that in this house she is very much mis¬ 
taken.” 

Dick drove into Bathgate at twenty minutes to 
eleven. He always liked to give himself plenty of 
time to catch a train, but hated waiting about on the 


230 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


platform. So he stopped at the George Hotel and 
went into the hall for a whisky-and-soda. 

“ Oh, good evening, Captain,” said the landlord, 
who was behind the bar. “ If you are going back 
to Kencote you can save me sending over. This 
letter has just come down by train.” He handed 
Dick a square envelope which he had just opened. 
On it was his name and address in Cicely’s writing, 
and an underlined inscription, “ Please send the 
enclosed letter to Kencote by special messenger 
as early as possible to-morrow morning.” Dick took 
out the inner envelope which was addressed to his 
mother, and looked at it. ‘‘ All right,” he said, “ I’ll 
take it over,” and slipped it into the pocket of his 
light overcoat. He ordered his whisky-and-soda 
and drank it, talking to the landlord as he did sOj 
Only a corner of the bar faced the hall, which wan 
otherwise empty, and as he went out he took the 
letter from his pocket and opened it. 

“ The devil you will! ” he said, as he read the few 
words Cicely had written. Then he went out and 
stood for a second beside his cart, thinking. 

“ I’m going to Mountfield,” he said as he swung 
the horse round and the groom jumped up behind. 
The groom would wonder at his change of plan and 
when he got back he would talk. If he told him not 
to he would talk all the more. Wisest to say nothing 
at present. So Dick drove along the five miles of 
dark road at an easy pace, for he could catch no 
train now until seven o’clock in the morning and 


THE PURSUIT 


231 


there was no use in hurrying, and thought and 
thought, as he drove. If he failed in stopping this 
astonishing and iniquitous proceeding it would not 
be for want of thinking. 

Mountfield was an early house. Jim himself 
unbarred and unlocked the front door to the groom’s 
ring. The chains and bolts to be undone seemed 
endless. “ Take out my bag,” said Dick, as he 
waited, sitting in the cart. “ I’m going to stay here 
for the night. There’ll be a note to take back to 
Mrs. Clinton. See that it goes up to her to-night.” 

He spoke so evenly that the groom wondered if, 
after all, there was anything going on under the 
surface at all. 

‘‘ Hullo, old chap,” Dick called out, directly Jim’s 
astonished face appeared in the doorway. “ Cicely 
has bolted off to see Muriel, and the governor has 
sent me to fetch her back. I was going up by the 
eleven o’clock train, but I thought I’d come here for 
to-night, and take you up with me in the morning. 
There’s nothing to hurry for.” 

Then he got down from the cart and gave the 
reins to the groom. “ I just want to send a note to 
the mater so that she won’t worry,” he said, as he 
went into the house. 

He went across the hall into Jim’s room, and Jim, 
who had not spoken, followed him. Read that,” 
he said, putting the letter into his hand. 

Jim read it and looked up at him. There was no 
expression on his face but one of bewilderment. 


232 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ You think it over,” said Dick, a little impa¬ 
tiently, and went to the writing-table and scribbled 
a note. 

“ Dear Mother, —I thought I would come on here 
first on the chance of hearing something, and glad 
I did so. There is a letter from Cicely. It is all 
right. Jim and I are going up to-morrow morning. 
Don’t worry. 

“ Dick.” 

* . 

Then, without taking any notice of Jim, still 
standing gazing at the letter in his hand with the 
same puzzled expression on his face, he went out and 
despatched the groom, closing the hall door after 
him. 

He went back into the room and shut that door 
too. “ Well! ” he said sharply. “ What the devil 
does it mean ? ” 

Jim’s expression had changed. It was now angry 
as well as puzzled. “ It was when he went after her 
on Sunday,” he said. “ Damn him! I thought-” 

“ Never mind what you thought,” said Dick. 
“ When did he see her alone .f* ” 

“I was going to tell you. When we came over 
yesterday afternoon he saw her over the wall, and 
directly we got to the house he bolted off after her. 
He said he had promised to show her some sketches.” 

“ But he didn’t find her. He said so at tea-time 
—^when she came out.” 



THE PURSUIT 


Jim was silent. Perhaps that was a bhnd,” said 
Dick. “ How long was it before he came back and 
said he couldn’t find her? ” 

“ About half an hour, I should think. Not so 
much.” 

“ He must have found her. But, good heavens! 
he can’t have persuaded her to run away -with him in 
half an hour! He had never been alone with her 
before.” 

No.” 

“ And he didn’t see her alone afterwards.” 

Jim’s face suddenly went dark. “ He—^he—went 
out after we went up to bed,” he said. 

“ What? ” 

“ He asked me to leave the door unlocked. He said 
he might not sleep, and if he didn’t he should go out.” 

The two men looked at one another. “ That’s a 
nice thing to hear of your sister,” said Dick bitterly. 

“ It’s a nice thing to hear of a man you’ve treated 
as a friend,” said Jim. 

“ How long have you known the fellow ? ” 

“ Oh, I told you. I met him when I was travelling, 
and asked him to look me up. I haven’t seen him 
since until he wrote and said he wanted to come for 
a quiet Sunday.” 

“ Why did he want to come ? I’ll tell you what 
it is, Jim. She must have met him in London, and 
you were the blind. Yes, that’s it. She’s been dif¬ 
ferent since she came back. I’ve noticed it. We’ve 
all noticed it.” 


THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ I don’t believe they met before,” said Jim slowly. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ I don’t believe they did. Dick, do you think they 
can be married already? Is there time to stop it? ” 

“ Yes, there’s time. I’ve thought it out. We’ll 
go up by the seven o’clock train. Where does the 
fellow live? ” 

Jim thought a moment. “ I don’t know. He 
wrote from the Royal Societies Club.” 

“ Well, we’ll find him. I’m not going to talk about 
it any more now. I’m too angry. Cicely! She 
ought to be whipped. If it too late, she shall 
never come to Kencote again, if I have any say in 
the matter, and I don’t think my say will be needed. 
Let’s go to bed. We shall have plenty of time to 
talk in the train.” 

“ I’ll go and get hold of Grove,” said Jim. “ He 
must get a room ready, and see that we get to the 
station in the morning,” and he went out of the 
room. 

Dick walked up and down, and then poured him¬ 
self out whisky-and-soda from a table standing 
ready. He lit a cigarette and threw the match vio¬ 
lently into the fireplace. When Jim returned he 
said, “I’ve managed to keep it pretty dark so far. 
The governor would have blurted everything out— 
everything that he knew. I’m glad I intercepted 
that letter to the mater. I haven’t any sort of 
feeling about opening it. Vm going to see to this. 
If we can get hold of her before it’s too late, she 


THE PURSUIT 


235 


must go to Muriel for a bit; I must keep it from the 
governor as long as I can—until I get back and can 
tackle him. He’ll be so furious that he’ll give it 
away all round. He wouldn’t think about the 
scandal.” 

‘‘ Pray God we shan’t be too late,” said Jim. 
“ What a fool I’ve been, Dick! I took it all for 
granted. I never thought that she wasn’t just as 
fond of me as I was of her.” 

Dick looked at him. “ Well, I suppose that’s all 
over now,” he said, “ a girl who behaves like that! ” 

Jim turned away, and said nothing, and by and by 
they went up to bed. 

They drove over to Bathgate the next morning 
and caught the seven o’clock train to Ganton, where 
they picked up the London express. Alone in a first- 
class smoking-carriage they laid their plans. “ I 
have an idea that is worth trying before we do any¬ 
thing else,” said Jim. “ When we were travelling 
together that fellow told me of some rooms in 
Bloomsbury he always went to when he could get 
them.” 

“ Do you know the address ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Jim, and gave it. “ He said they 
were the best rooms in London, and made me write 
down the address. I found it last night.” 

‘‘ Why on earth didn’t you say so before.?^ ” 

“ I had forgotten. I didn’t suppose I should ever 
want to take rooms in Bloomsbury.” 

‘‘ It’s a chance. We’ll go there first. If we draw 


2S6 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


blank, we will go to his club, and then to the 
Geographical Society. We’ll find him somewhere.” 

“ We can’t do anything to him,” said Jim. 

“ I’m not thinking much of him,” Dick confessed. 

It would be a comfort to bruise him a bit—though 
I dare say he’d be just as likely to bruise me. He’s 
got an amazing cheek; but, after all, a man plays 
his own hand. If she had behaved herself properly 
he couldn’t have done anything.” 

He flicked the ash of his cigar on to the carpet and 
looked carelessly out of the window, but turned his 
head sharply at the tone in which Jim said, “ If I 
could get him alone, and it couldn’t do her any harm 
afterwards, I’d kill him.” And he cursed Mackenzie 
with a deliberate, blasphemous oath. 

Dick said nothing, but looked out of the window 
again with an expression that was not careless. 

Jim spoke again in the same low voice of sup¬ 
pressed passion. I told him about her when I was 
travelling. I don’t know why, but I did. And after 
you dined on Friday we spoke about her. He 
praised her. I didn’t say much, but he knew what I 
felt. And he had got this in his mind then. He must 
have had. He was my friend, staying in my house. 
He’s a liar and a scoundrel. For all he’s done, and 
the name he’s made, he’s not fit company for decent 
men. Dick, I’d give up everything I possess for the 
chance of handling him.” 

‘‘ I’d back you up,” said Dick. ‘‘ But the chief 
thing is to get her away from him.” 


THE PURSUIT 


237 


I know that. It’s the only thing. We can’t do 
anything. I was thinking of it nearly all night long. 
And supposing we don’t find him, or don’t find him 
till too late.” 

“We won’t think of that,” said Dick coolly. 
“ One thing at a time. And we’ll shut his mouth, at 
any rate. I feel equal to that.” 

They were silent for a time, and then Jim said, 
“ Dick, I’d like to say one thing. She may not care 
about seeing me. I suppose she can’t care for me 
much—now—or she wouldn’t have let him take her 
away. But I’m going to fight for her—see that.'* 
I’m going to fight for her, if it’s not too late.” 

Dick looked uncomfortable in face of his earnest¬ 
ness. “ If you want her,” he began hesitatingly, 
“ after-” 

“Want her!” echoed Jim. “Haven’t I always 
wanted her.? I suppose I haven’t shown it. It isn’t 
my way to show much. But I thought it was all 
settled and I rested on that. Good God, I’ve 
wanted her every day of my life—ever since we fixed 
it up together—years ago. I wish I’d taken her, 
now, and let the beastly finance right itself. It 
wouldn’t have made much difference, after all. But 
I wanted to give her everything she ought to have. 
If I’ve seemed contented to wait, I can tell you I 
haven’t been. I didn’t want to worry her. I—I— 
thought she understood.” 

“ She’s behaved very badly,” said Dick, too polite 
to show his surprise at this revelation. Jim had 



238 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


always been rather a queer fellow. If you want 
her still, she ought to be precious thankful. The 
whole thing puzzles me. I can’t see her doing it.” 

“ I couldn’t, last night,” said Jim, more quietly. 
“ I can now. She’s got pluck. I never gave her any 
chance to show it.” 

They were mostly silent after this. Every now 
and then one of them said a word or two that showed 
that their thoughts were busy in what lay before 
them. The last thing Jim said before the train 
drew up at the same platform at which Cicely had 
alighted the day before was, “ I can’t do anything to 
him.” 

They drove straight to the house in Bloomsbury. 
Mrs. Fletcher opened the door to them. “ Mr. 
Mackenzie is expecting us, I think,” said Dick 
suavely, and made as if to enter. 

Mrs. Fletcher looked at them suspiciously, more 
because it was her way than because, in face of Dick’s 
assumption, she had any doubts of their right of 
entrance. He didn’t say that he expected any¬ 

body,” she said. “ I can take your names up to 
him.” 

“ Oh, thanks, we won’t trouble you,” said Dick. 
‘‘ We will go straight up. First floor, as usual, I 
suppose? ” 

It was a slip, and Mrs. Fletcher planted herself 
in the middle of the passage at once. 

‘‘ Wait a moment,” she said. “What do you mean 
by ‘ as usual ’? Neither of you have been in the 


THE PURSUIT 


house before. You won’t go up to Mr. Mackenzie 
without I know he wants to see you.” 

Now, look here,” said Dick, at once. “ We are 
going up to Mr. Mackenzie, and I expect you know 
why. If you try to stop us, one of us will stay here 
and the other will fetch the policeman. You can 
make up your mind at once which it shall be, be¬ 
cause we’ve no time to waste.” 

“ Nobody has ever talked to me about a police¬ 
man before; you’ll do it at your peril,” she said 
angrily, still standing in the passage, but Dick saw 
her cast an eye towards the door on her left. 

‘‘ I’m quite ready to take the consequences,” said 
Dick, “ but whatever they are it won’t do you any 
good with other people in your house to have the 
police summoned at half-past tei in the morning. 
Now will you let us pass? ” 

She suddenly turned and made way for them. 
Dick went upstairs and Jim followed him. The door 
of the drawing-room was opposite to them. “ I’ll 
do the talking,” said Dick, and opened the door and 
went in. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE CONTEST 

Mackenzie sprang up and stood facing them. His 
face had changed in a flash. It was not at all the 
face of a man who had been caught and was ashamed; 
it was rather glad. Even his ill-made London clothes 
could not at that moment disguise his magniflcent 
gift of virility. So he might have looked—when there 
was no one to see him -face to face with sudden, un¬ 
expected danger in far diflPerent surroundings, daunt¬ 
less, and eager to wrest his life out of the instant 
menace of dea h. 

Dick had a momentary perception of the quality 
of* the man he had to deal with, which was instantly 
obliterated by a wave of contemptuous dislike—the 
dislike of a man to whom all expression of feeling, 
except, perhaps, anger, was an offence. He had 
looked death in the face too, but not with that air. 
Assumed at a moment like this it was a vulgar 
absurdity. He met Mackenzie’s look with a cool 
contempt. 

But the challenge, and the reply to it, had occu¬ 
pied but a moment. Cicely had looked up and cried, 
“ O Dick! ” and had tried to rise from her chair to 
come to him, but could not. The tone in which she 
uttered that appeal for mercy and protection made 
240 


THE CONTEST 


241 


Jim Graham wince, but it did not seem to affect her 
brother. “ Go and get ready to come with us,” he 
said. 

Jim had never taken his eyes off Cicely since he 
had entered the room, but she did not look at him. 
She sat in her chair, trembling a little, her eyes 
upon her brother’s face, which was now turned 
toward her with no expression in it but a cold au¬ 
thority. 

She stood up with difficulty, and Jim took half 
a step forward. But Mackenzie broke in, with a 
gesture towards her. “ Come now, Captain Clinton,” 
he said. “ You have found us out; but I am going 
to marry your sister. You are not going to take her 
away, you know.” He spoke in a tone of easy good 
humour. The air, slightly theatrical, as it had 
seemed, with which he had faced their intrusion, had 
disappeared. 

Dick took no notice of him whatever. “ I am 
going to take you up to Muriel,” he said to Cicely. 

There’s a cab waiting. Have you anything to get, 
or are you ready to come now.?^ ” 

She turned to go to her room, but Mackenzie 
interposed again. “ Stay here, please,” he said. 
“ We won’t take our orders from Captain Clinton. 
Look here, Clinton, I dare say this has been a bit of 
a shock to you, and I’m sorry it had to be done in 
such a hurry. But everything is straight and honest. 
I want to marry your sister, and she wants to marry 
me. She is of age and you can’t stop her. I’m 


242 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


going to make her a good husband, and she’s going 
to make me the best of wives.” 

He still spoke good-humouredly, with the air of 
a man used to command who condescends to reason. 
He knew his power and was accustomed to exercise 
it, with a hand behind his back, so to speak, upon 
just such young men as these; men who were so¬ 
cially his superiors, and on that very account to be 
kept under, and taught that there was no such thing 
as social superiority where his work was to be done, 
but only leader and led. 

But still Dick took no notice of him. “ Come 
along. Cicely,” he said, with a trifle of impatience. 

Mackenzie shrugged his shoulders angrily. “ Very 
well,” he said, “ if you’ve made up your mind to take 
that fool’s line, take it and welcome. Only you 
won’t take her. She’s promised to me. My dear, 
tell them so.” 

He bent his look upon Cicely, the look which had 
made her soft in his hands. Dick was looking at her 
too, standing on the other side of the table, with 
cold displeasure. And Jim had never looked away 
from her. His face was tender and compassionate, 
but she did not see it. She looked at Dick, searching 
his face for a sign of such tenderness, but none was 
there, or she would have gone to him. Her eyes 
were drawn to Mackenzie’s, and rested there as if 
fascinated. They were like those of a frightened 
animal. 

“ Come now,” said Mackenzie abruptly. ‘‘ It is 


THE CONTEST 


24<S 

for you to end all this. I would have spared you if 
I could—you know that; but if they must have it 
from you, let them have it. Tell them that I asked 
you to come away and marry me, and that you came 
of your own accord. Tell them that I have taken 
care of you. Tell them that we are to be married 
this morning.” 

She hesitated painfully, and her eyes went to her 
brother’s face again in troubled appeal. He made 
no response to her look, but when the clock on the 
mantelpiece had ticked half a dozen audible beats 
and she had not spoken, he turned to Mackenzie. 

“ I see,” he said. “ You have-” 

“ Oh, let her speak,” Mackenzie interrupted 
roughly, with a flashing glance at him. “ You have 
had your say.” 

“ It is quite plain, sir,” proceeded Dick in his 
level voice, that you have gained some sort of in¬ 
fluence over my sister.” 

“ Oh, that is plain, is it ? ” sneered Mackenzie. 

“ Excuse me if I don’t express myself very 
cleverly,” said Dick. “ What I mean is that some¬ 
how you have managed to hully her into running 
away with you.” 

They looked into one another’s eyes for an in¬ 
stant. The swords were crossed. Mackenzie turned 
to Cicely. “Did I do that.^” he asked quietly. 

“ If I might suggest,” Dick said, before she could 
reply, “ that you don’t try and get behind my sister, 
but speak up for yourself-” 




244 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Did I do that? ” asked Mackenzie again. 

O Dick dear,” said Cicely, “ I said I would 
come. It was my own fault.” 

“ Your own fault—yes,” said Dick. “ But I am 
talking to this—this gentleman, now.” 

Mackenzie faced him again. Oh, we’re to have 
all that wash about gentlemen, are we? I’m not a 
gentleman. That’s the trouble, is it ? ” 

“ It is part of the trouble,” said Dick. “ A good 
big part.” 

‘‘ Do you know what I do with the gentlemen who 
come worrying me for jobs when I go on an expedi¬ 
tion, Captain Clinton—the gentlemen who want to 
get seconded from your regiment and all the other 
smart regiments, to serve under me? ” 

“ Shall we stick to the point? ” asked Dick. “ My 
cab is waiting.” 

Mackenzie’s face looked murderous for a moment, 
but he had himself in hand at once. “ The point is,” 
he said, “ that I am going to marry your sister, with 
her consent.” 

“ The point is how you got her consent. I am 
here in place of my father—and hers. If she 
marries you she marries you, but she doesn’t do 
it before I tell her what she is letting herself in 
for.” 

“ Tlien perhaps you will tell her that.” 

“ I will.” Dick looked at Cicely. “ I should like 
to ask you to begin with when you first met—Mr. 
Mackenzie,” he said. 


THE CONTEST 


245 


“ Dear Dick! ” cried Cicely, “ don’t be so cruel. 
I—I—was discontented at home, and I-” 

“ We met first at Graham’s house,” said Mac¬ 
kenzie, ‘‘ when you were there. I first spoke to her 
alone on Sunday afternoon, and she promised to 
come away and marry me on Sunday night. Now 
go on.” 

“ That was when you told Graham that you 
couldn’t sleep, I suppose, in the middle of the night.” 

“ I walked over from Mountfield, and she came to 
me in the garden, as I had asked her to. We were 
together about three minutes.” 

Dick addressed Cicely again, still with the same 
cold authority. “ You were discontented at home. 
You can tell me why afterwards. You meet this 
man and hear him bragging of his great deeds, and 
when he takes you by surprise and asks you to marry 
him, you are first of all rather frightened, and then 
you think it would be an adventure to go off with 
him. Is that it.?^ ” 

“ It’s near enough,” said Mackenzie, “ except that 
I don’t brag.” 

“ I’ve got my own ears,” said Dick, still facing 
Cicely. “ Well, I dare say the sort of people you’re 
used to don’t seem much beside a man who gets him¬ 
self photographed on picture postcards, but I’ll tell 
you a few of the things we don’t do. We don’t go 
and stay in our friends’ houses and then rob them. 
You belonged to Jim. You’d promised him, and this 
man knew it. We don’t go to other men’s houses 



S46 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


and eat their salt and make love to their daughters 
behind their backs. We don’t tell mean lies. We 
don’t ask young girls to sneak out of their homes to 
meet us in the middle of the night. We respect the 
women we want to marry, we don’t compromise them. 
If this man had been a fit husband for you, he 
would have asked for you openly. It’s just because 
he knows he isn’t that he brings all his weight to 
bear upon you, and you alone. He doesn’t dare to 
face your father or your brothers.” 

Cicely had sunk down into her chair again. Her 
head was bent, but her eyes were dry now. Mac¬ 
kenzie had listened to him with his face set and his 
lips pressed together. What he thought of the dam¬ 
aging indictment, whether it showed him his actions 
in a fresh light, or only heightened his resentment, 
nobody could have told. “ Have you finished what 
you have to say.?” he asked. 

“Not quite,” replied Dick. “Listen to me, 
Cicely.” 

“ Yes, and then listen to me,” said Mackenzie. 

“ What sort of treatment do you think you’re 
going to get from a man who has behaved like that? 
He’s ready to give you a hole-and-corner marriage. 
He wants you for the moment, and he’ll do anything 
to get you. He’ll get tired of you in a few weeks, 
and then he’ll go off to the other side of the world 
and where will you be? How much thought has he 
given to your side of the bargain? He’s ready to 
cut you off from your own people —he doesn’t care. 


THE CONTEST 


247 


He takes you from a house like Kencote and brings 
you here. He’s lied to Jim, who treated him like a 
friend, and he’s behaved like a cad to us who let him 
into our house. He’s done all these things in a few 
days. How are you going to spend your life with a 
fellow like that? ” 

Cicely looked up. Her face was firmer, and she 
spoke to Mackenzie. “We had begun to talk about 
all these things,” she said. “ I asked you a question 
which you didn’t answer. Did you know when you 
told me you were going back to Tibet in a fortnight 
and there wasn’t time to—to ask father for me, that 
you weren’t going until next year ? ” 

“ No, I didn’t,” said Mackenzie. 

“ When did he tell you that ? ” asked Dick. 

“ On Sunday.” 

“ I can find that out for you easily enough. I 
shouldn’t take an answer from him.” 

Again, for a fraction of a second, Mackenzie’s 
face was deadly, but he said quietly to Cicely, “ I 
have answered your question. Go on.” 

“ You know why I did what you asked me,” she 
said. “ I thought you were offering me a freer life 
and that I should share in all your travels and 
dangers. You told me just before my brother came 
in that you didn’t want me for that.” 

“ I told you,” said Mackenzie, speaking to her as 
if no one else had been in the room, “ that you 
movld have a freer life, but that I shouldn’t risk your 
safety by taking you into dangerous places. I told 


^48 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


you that I would do all that a man could do to 
protect and honour his chosen wife, and that’s God’s 
truth. I told you that I would make you happy. 
That I know I can do, and I will do. Your brother 
judges me by the fiddling little rules he and the 
like of him live by. He calls himself a gentle¬ 
man, and says I’m not one. I know I’m not his 
kind of a gentleman. I’ve no wish to be; I’m some¬ 
thing bigger. I’ve got my own honour. You know 
how I’ve treated you. Your own mother couldn’t 
have been more careful of you. And so I’ll treat 
you to the end of the chapter when you give me 
the right to. You can’t go back now; it’s too late. 
You see how this precious brother of yours looks 
at you, after what you have done. You’ll be sorry 
if you throw yourself into his hands again. Show 
some pluck and send him about his business. You 
can trust yourself to me. You won’t regret it.” 

The shadow of his spell was over her again. She 
hesitated once more and Dick’s face became hard 
and angry. “ Before you decide,” he said, “ let me 
tell you this, that if you do marry this fellow you 
will never come to Kencote again or see any of us 
as long as you live.” 

“ You won’t see your eldest brother,” said Mac¬ 
kenzie. “ I’ll take care of that. But you will see 
those you want to see. I’ll see to that too. It’s 
time to end this. I keep you to your word. You 
said you were mine, and you meant it. I don’t 
release you from your promise.” 


THE CONTEST 


md 

Cicely’s calm broke down. “ Oh, I don’t know 
what to do,” she cried. “ I did promise.” 

“ I keep you to your promise,” said Mackenzie 
inexorably. 

Then Jim, who had kept silence all this time, spoke 
at last. “ Cicely,” he said, “ have you forgotten that 
you made me a promise ” 

“ O Jim,” she said, without looking at him, “ don’t 
speak to me. I have behaved very badly to you.” 

“ You never wanted to marry him,” said Mackenzie 
roughly. “ He’s not the husband for a girl of any 
spirit.” 

Jim made no sign of having heard him. His face 
was still turned towards Cicely. “ It has been my 
fault,” he said. “ I’ve taken it all for granted. 
But I’ve never thought about anybody else. Cicely.” 

Mackenzie wouldn’t allow him to make his appeal 
as he had allowed Dick. “ He has had five years to 
take you in,” he said. ‘‘ He told me so. And he 
hasn’t taken you because he might have less money 
to spend on himself, till he’d paid off his rates and 
taxes. He told me that too. He can afford to keep 
half a dozen horses and a house full of servants. 
He can’t afford a wife! ” 

He spoke with violent contempt. Dick gazed at 
him steadily with contemptuous dislike. “ This is 
the fellow that invited himself to your house, Jim,” 
he said. 

“ Let me speak now, Dick,” said Jim, with decision. 
“ He can’t touch me, and I don’t care if he does. 


250 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


He’s nothing at all. I won’t bother you, Cicely, 
my dear. I’ve always loved you and I always shall. 
But-” 

“ No, he won’t bother you,” interrupted Mac¬ 
kenzie with a sneer. “ He’s quite comfortable.” 

“ But you will know I’m there when you are ready 
to be friends again. If I haven’t told you before I’ll 
tell you now. I’ve kept back all I’ve felt for you, 
but I’ve never changed and I shan’t change. This 
won’t make any difference, except that-” 

“ Except that he’s lost you and I’ve won you,” 
Mackenzie broke in. “ He’s had his chance and he’s 
missed it. You don’t want to be worried with his 
drivel.” 

Cicely looked up at Mackenzie. “ Let him speak,” 
she said, with some indignation. “ I have listened 
to all you have said.” 

Mackenzie’s attitude relaxed suddenly. After a 
searching glance at her he shrugged his shoulders 
and turned aside. He took up his grey kid gloves 
lying on the table and played with them. 

“ I don’t blame you for this—not a bit,” said Jim, 

and I never shall. Whatever you want I’ll try 
and give you.” 

“ O Jim, I can’t marry you now,” said Cicely, her 
head turned from him. “ But you are very kind.” 
She broke into tears again, more tempestuous than 
before. Her strength was nearly at an end. 

“ I’ve told you that I shan’t worry you,” Jim said. 
“ But you mustn’t marry this man without thinking 




THE CONTEST 


251 


about it. You must talk to your mother—she’ll 
be heart-broken if you go away from her like this.” 

“ Oh, does she want me back.? ” cried Cicely. 

“ Yes, she does. You must go up to Muriel now. 
She’ll want you too. And you needn’t go home till 
you want to.” 

“ I shall never be able to go home again,” she said. 

Mackenzie threw his gloves on to the table. “ Do 
you want to go home.?” he asked her. His voice 
had lost that insistent quality. He spoke as if he 
was asking her whether she would like to take a 
walk, in a tone almost pleasant. 

I want to go away,” she said doggedly. 

‘‘ Then you may go,” said Mackenzie, still in the 
same easy voice. “ I wanted you, and if we had been 
in a country where men behave like men, I would 
have had you. But I see I’m up against the whole 
pudding weight of British respectability, and I own 
it’s too strong for me. We could have shifted it 
together, but you’re not the girl to go in with a man. 
I’ll do without you.” 

“ You had better come now. Cicely,” said Dick. 

Mackenzie gave a great laugh, with a movement of 
his whole body as if he were throwing off a weight. 

Shake hands before you go,” he said, as she rose 
obediently. “You’re making a mistake, you know; 
but I don’t altogether wonder at it. If I’d had a 
day longer they should never have taken you away. 
I nearly got you, as it was.” 

Cicely put her hand into his and looked him 


252 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 

squarely in the face. Good-bye,” she said. “ You 
thought too little of me after all. If you had really 
been willing for me to share your life, I think I 
would have stayed with you.” 

His face changed at that. He fixed her with a 
look, but she took her hand out of his and turned 
away. “ I am ready, Dick,” she said, and again he 
shrugged his broad shoulders. 

‘‘ I wish I had it to do over again,” he said. 
“ Well, gentlemen, you have won and I have lost. I 
don’t often lose, but when I do I don’t whine about 
it. You can make your minds easy. Not a word 
about this shall pass my lips.” 

Dick turned round suddenly. ‘‘ Will you swear 
that.f^ ” he asked. 

Oh, yes, if you like. I mean it.” 

Dick and Cicely went out of the room. “ Well, 
Graham, I hope you’ll get her now I’ve lost her,” 
said Mackenzie. 

Jim took no notice of him, but went out after the 
other two. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AFTER THE STORM 

Cicely had an air at once ashamed and defiant as she 
stepped up into the cab. Dick gave the cabman the 
address. “ See you to-night, then,” he said to Jim. 
It had been arranged between them that when Cicely 
had been rescued Jim should fall out, as it were, 
for a time. “ Good-bye, Cicely,” he said. “ Give 
my love to Walter and Muriel,” and walked off down 
the pavement. 

“ You can tell me now,” said Dick, when the cab 
had started, “ what went wrong with you to make 
you do such a thing as that.” 

“ I’m not going to tell you anything,” said Cicely. 
“ I know I have made a mistake, and I know you 
will punish me for it—you and father and the boys. 
You can do what you like, but I’m not going to 
help you.” 

Tears of self-pity stood in her eyes, and her face 
was now very white and tired, but very childish too. 
Dick was struck with some compunction. “ I dare 
say you have had enough for the present,” he said, 
not unkindly. “ But how you could!—a low-bred 
swine like that! ” 

Cicely set her lips obstinately. She knew very 
well that this weapon would be used freely in what 
253 


254 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


she had called her punishment. Men like Dick sifted 
other men with a narrow mesh. A good many 
of those whom a woman might accept and even ad¬ 
mire, if left to herself, would not pass through it. 
Certainly Mackenzie wouldn’t. She would have had 
to suffer for running away, but she would suffer 
far more for running away with “ a bounder.” And 
what made it harder was that, although she didn’t 
know it yet, in the trying battle that had just been 
waged over her, the sieve of her own perceptions 
had narrowed, and Mackenzie, now, would not have 
passed through that. She would presently be effec¬ 
tually punished there, if Dick and the rest should 
leave her alone entirely. 

Dick suddenly realised that he was ravenously de¬ 
sirous of a cigarette, and having lit one and inhaled 
a few draughts of smoke, felt the atmosphere lighter. 

By Jove, that was a tussle,” he said. “ He’s a 
dangerous fellow, that. You’ll thank me, some day. 
Cicely, for getting you away from him.” 

‘‘You didn’t get me away,” said Cicely. “You 
had nothing whatever to do with it.” 

“Eh.?” said Dick. 

“ If you had been just a little kind I would have 
come with you the moment you came into the room. 
I was longing for some one from home. You made 
it the hardest thing in the world for me to come. If 
I had stayed with him it would have been your fault. 
I’ll never forgive you for the way you treated me, 
Dick. And you may do what you like to me now. 


AFTER THE STORM 


255 


and father may do what he likes. Nothing can be 
worse than that.” 

She poured out her words hurriedly, and only the 
restraint that comes with a seat in a hansom cab 
within full view of the populace of Camden Town 
prevented her bursting into hysterical tears. 

Dick would rather have ridden up to the mouth 
of a cannon than drive through crowded streets with 
a woman making a scene, so he said, “ Oh, for God’s 
sake keep quiet now,” and kept quiet himself, with 
something to think about. 

Presently he said, “No one knows at home yet 
that you aren’t with Muriel. You’ve got me to 
thank for that, at any rate.” 

Cicely blushed with her sudden great relief, but 
went pale again directly. “ I wrote to mother,” she 
said. “ She would get the letter early this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“ I’ve got the letter in my pocket,” said Dick. 
“ She hasn’t seen it.” 

“ You opened my letter to mother! ” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

“ Yes, I did, and lucky for you too. It was how 
we found you.” 

She let that pass. It was of no interest to her 
then to learn by what chance they had found her. 
“ Then do you really mean that they don’t know at 
home ? ” she asked eagerly. 

“ They know you have gone to Muriel—you’ll be 
there in half an hour—and nothing else.” 


256 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ 0 Dick, then you won’t tell them,” she cried, her 
hand on his sleeve. “ You can’t be so cruel as to 
tell them.” 

She had the crowded streets to thank for Dick’s 
quick answer, “ I’m not going to tell them. Do, 
for Heaven’s sake, keep quiet.” 

She leant back against the cushions. She had the 
giddy feeling of a man who has slipped on the verge 
of a great height, and saved himself. 

‘‘ You’ll have plenty to answer for as it is,” said 
Dick, with a short laugh. “ You’ve run away, though 
you’ve only run away to Muriel. You won’t get let 
down easily.” 

She was not dismayed at that. The other peril, 
surmounted, was so crushingly greater. And there 
had been reasons for her running away, even if she 
had not run away to Mackenzie. She stood by them 
later and they helped her to forget Mackenzie’s share 
in the flight. But now she could only lean back 
and taste the blessed relief that Dick had given 
her. 

‘‘ Do Walter and Muriel know I am coming? ” she 
asked. 

“ I sent them a wire from Ganton this morning to 
say that I should probably bring you, and they 
weren’t to answer a wire from home, if one came, 
till they had heard from me. You’ve made me 
stretch my brains since last night. Cicely. You’d 
have been pretty well in the ark if it hadn’t been 
for me.” 


AFTER THE STORM 


257 


“ You didn’t help me for my own sake though,” 
said Cicely. 

Both of them spoke as if they were carrying on 
a conversation about nothing in particular. Their 
capacity for disturbing discussion was exhausted for 
the time. Cicely felt a faint anticipatory pleasure in 
going to Muriel’s new house, and Dick said, “ This 
must be Melbury Park. Funny sort of place to find 
your relations in! ” 

But Adelaide Avenue, to which the cabman had 
been directed, did not quite bear out the Squire’s 
impressions, nor even the Rector’s, of the dreary 
suburb; and lying, as it did, behind the miles of 
shop-fronts, mean or vulgarly inviting, which they 
had traversed, and away from the business of the 
great railway which gave the name of Melbury Park, 
its sole significance to many besides the Squire, it 
seemed quiet, and even inviting. It curved be¬ 
tween a double row of well-grown limes. Each house, 
or pair of houses, had a little garden in front and 
a bigger one behind, and most of the houses were 
of an earlier date than the modem red brick 
suburban villa. They were ugly enough, with their 
stucco fronts and the steps leading up to their front 
doors, but they were respectable and established, 
and there were trees behind them, and big, if dingy, 
shrubs inside their gates. 

Walter’s house stood at a comer where a new 
road had been cut through. This was lined on each 
side with a row of two-storied villas behind low 


^58 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


wooden palings, of which the owner, in describing 
them, had taken liberties with the name of Queen 
Anne. But Walter’s house and the one adjoining it 
in the Avenue, though built in the same style, or 
with the same lack of it, were much bigger, and had 
divided between them an old garden of a quarter of 
an acre, which, although it would have been nothing 
much at Kencote, almost attained to the dignity of 
“ grounds ” at Melbury Park. 

There was a red lamp by the front gate, and as 
they drew up before it, Muriel came out under a 
gabled porch draped with Virginia creeper and hur¬ 
ried to welcome them to her married home. 

She looked blooming, as a bride should, even on 
this hot August day in London. She wore a frock 
of light holland, and it looked somehow different 
from the frocks of holland or of white drill which 
Cicely had idly observed in some numbers as she 
had driven through the streets and roads of the 
suburb. She had a choking sensation as she saw 
Muriel’s eager face, and her neat dress, just as she 
might have worn it at home. 

“ Hullo, Dick,” said Muriel. “ Walter will be in 
to lunch. O Cicely, it is jolly to see you again. But 
where’s your luggage.^ You’ve come to stay. Why, 
you’re looking miserable, my dear! What on earth’s 
the matter.? And what did Mr. Clinton’s telegram 
mean, and Dick’s.? We haven’t wired yet, but we 
must.” 

They had walked up the short garden path, leav- 


AFTER THE STORM 


259 


ing Dick to settle with the cabman, who had been 
nerving himself for a tussle, and was surprised to 
find it unnecessary. 

“ I’m in disgrace, Muriel,” said Cicely. “ I’ll tell 
you all about it when we are alone, if Dick doesn’t 
first.” 

Muriel threw a penetrating look at her and then 
turned to Dick, who said, with a grin, “ This is the 
drive, is it, Muriel.? ” 

“ You are not going to laugh at my house, Dick,” 
said Muriel. “ You’ll be quite as comfortable here 
as anywhere. Come in. This is the hall.” 

“ No, not really.? ” said Dick. “ By Jove! ” 

It was not much of a hall, the style of Queen Anne 
as adapted to the requirements of Melbury Park 
not being accustomed to effloresce in halls; but a 
green Morris paper, a blue Morris carpet, and white 
enamelled woodwork had brought it into some 
grudging semblance of welcoming a visitor. The 
more cultured ladies of Melbury Park in discussing 
it had called it artistic, but slightly bizarre,’' a 
phrase which was intended to combine a guarded 
appreciation of novelty witii a more solid preference 
for sanitary wallpaper, figured oilcloth and paint of 
what they called “ dull art colours.” 

‘‘ Look at my callers,” said Muriel, indicating a 
china bowl on a narrow mahogany table that was 
full to the brim with visiting cards. “ I can assure 
you I’m the person to know here. No sniffing at 
a doctor’s wife in Melbury Park, Dick.” 


260 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“By Jove!” said Dick. “You’re getting into 
society.” 

“ My dear Dick, don’t I tell you, I am society. 
Oh, good gracious, I was forgetting. Walter told 
me to send a telegram to Kencote the very moment 
you came. Mr. Clinton wired at eight o’clock this 
morning and it’s half-past twelve now.” 

Cicely turned away, and Dick became serious 
again. “Where’s the wire.?” he asked. “I’ll an¬ 
swer it.” 

“ Come into Walter’s room,” said Muriel, “ there 
are forms there.” 

“ I wonder he hasn’t wired again,” said Dick, and 
as he spoke a telegraph boy came up to the open door. 

“ Cannot understand why no reply to telegram. 
Excessively annoyed. Wire at once.— Edward 
Clinton,” ran the Squire’s second message, and his 
first, which Muriel handed to Dick: “ Is Cicely with 
you. Most annoyed. Wire immediately.— Edward 
Clinton.” 

“ I’ll soothe him,” said Dick, and he wrote, 
“ Cicely here. Wanted change. Is writing. Wal¬ 
ter’s reply must have miscarried.— Dick.” “ An¬ 
other lie,” he said composedly. 

“ I want some clothes sent, please, Dick,” said 
Cicely in a constrained voice. 

“ Better tell ’em to send Miles up,” said Dick, 
considering. 


AFTER THE STORM 


261 


No, I don’t want Miles,” said Cicely, and Dick 
added, “ Please tell Miles send Cicely clothes for 
week this afternoon.” ‘‘I suppose you can put her 
up for a week, Muriel,” he said. 

“ I’ll put her up for a month, if she’ll stay,” said 
Muriel, putting her arm into Cicely’s, and the 
amended telegram was despatched. 

“ Now come and see my drawing-room,” said 
Muriel, “ and then you can look after yourself, Dick, 
till Walter comes home, and I will take Cicely to her 
room.” 

The drawing-room opened on to a garden, wonder¬ 
fully green and shady considering where it was. The 
white walls and the chintz-covered chairs and sofa 
had again struck the cultured ladies of Melbury Park 
as “ artistic but slightly hizarre,^^ but the air of 
richness imparted by the numberless hymeneal offer¬ 
ings of Walter’s and Muriel’s friends and relations 
had given them a pleasant subject for conversation. 
Their opinion was that it was a mistake to have 
such valuable things lying about, but if “ the doc¬ 
tor ” collected them and took them up to put under 
his bed every night it would not so much matter. 

“ They all tell me that Dr. Pringle used this room 
as a dining-room,” said Muriel. “ It is the first thing 
they say, and it breaks the ice. We get on won¬ 
derfully well after that; but it is a pretty room, isn’t 
it, Dick.? ” 

She had her arm in Cicely’s, and pressed it some¬ 
times as she talked, but she did not talk to her. 


26a THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ It’s an uncommonly pretty room,” said Dick. 
‘‘ Might be in Grosvenor Square. Where did you 
and Walter get your ideas of furnishing from, 
Muriel? We don’t run to this sort of thing at Ken- 
cote and Mountfield. Content with what our fore¬ 
fathers have taught us, eh? ” 

“ Oh, we know what’s what, all right,” said Muriel. 
“We have seen a few pretty rooms, between us. 
Now I’m going to take Cicely upstairs. You can 
wander about if you like, Dick, and there are 
cigarettes and things in Walter’s room.” 

“ I’ll explore the gay parterre,” said Dick. Then 
he turned to Cicely and took hold of her chin be¬ 
tween his thumb and finger. “ Look here, don’t you 
worry any more, old lady,” he said kindly. “ You’ve 
been a little fool, and you’ve had a knock. Tell 
Muriel about it and I’ll tell Walter. Nobody else 
need know.” 

She clung to him, crying. “ O Dick,” she said, “ if 
you had only spoken to me like that at first! ” 

“ Well, if I had,” said Dick, “ I should have been 
in a devil of a temper now. As it is I’ve worked it 
off. There, run along. You’ve nothing to cry for 
now.” He kissed her, which was an unusual attention 
on his part, and went through the door into the 
garden. Muriel and Cicely went upstairs together. 

Dick soon exhausted the possibilities of the garden 
and went into the house again and into Walter’s 
room. It had red walls and a Turkey carpet. There 
was a big American desk, a sofa and easy-chairs 


AFTER THE STORM 


263 


and three Chippendale chairs, all confined in rather 
a small space. There was a low bookcase along one 
wall, and above it framed school and college photo¬ 
graphs ; on the other walls were prints from pictures 
at Kencote. They were the only things in the room, 
except the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and a table 
with a heavy silver cigarette box, and other smoking 
apparatus, that lightened its workmanlike air. But 
Dick was not apt to be affected by the air of a 
room. He sat down in the easy-chair and stretched 
his long legs in front of him, and thought over the 
occurrences of the morning. 

He was rather surprised to find himself in so 
equable a frame of mind. His anger against Cicely 
had gradually worked up since the previous evening 
until, when he had seen her in the room with Mac¬ 
kenzie, he could have taken her by the shoulders and 
shaken her, with clenched teeth. She had done a dis¬ 
graceful thing; she, a girl, had taken the sacred 
name of Clinton in her hands and thrown it to the 
mob to worry. That he had skilfully caught and 
saved it before it had reached them did not make her 
crime any the less. 

But he could not now regain—he tested his 
capacity to regain, out of curiosity—his feeling of 
outraged anger against her. Curious that, in the 
train, he had felt no very great annoyance against 
Mackenzie. He asked himself if he hadn’t gone 
rather near to admiring the decisive stroke he had 
played, which few men would have attempted on 


S64 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


such an almost complete lack of opportunity. But 
face to face with him his dislike and resentment had 
flared up. His anger now came readily enough 
when he thought of Mackenzie, and he found himself 
wishing ardently for another chance of showing it 
effectively. It was this, no doubt, that had softened 
him towards his little sister, whom he loved in his 
patronising way. The fellow had got hold of her. 
She was a little fool, but it was the man who was 
to blame. And his own resource had averted the 
danger of scandal, which he dreaded like any woman. 
He could not but be rather pleased with himself for 
the way in which he had carried through his job, 
and Cicely gained the advantage of his self-com¬ 
mendation. There was one thing, thought—his father 
must never know. The fat would be in the fire then 
with a vengeance. 

Turning over these things in his mind, Dick 
dropped off into a light doze, from which he was 
awakened by the entrance of Walter. Walter wore 
a tall hat and a morning coat. It was August and 
it was very hot, and in Bond Street he would have 
worn a flannel suit and a straw hat. But if he did 
that here his patients would think that he thought 
anything good enough for them. There were penal¬ 
ties attached to the publication of that list of wed¬ 
ding presents in the Melhwry Park Chronicle and 
North London Intelligencer, and he had been warned 
of these and sundry other matters. He was not 
free of the tiresome side-issues of his profession 


AFTER THE STORM 


265 


even in Melbury Park. “Hullo, Dick, old chap!” 
he said as he came in with cheerful alacrity. “ Is 
Cicely here, and what has happened.^ ” 

“Hullo, Walter!” said Dick. “Yes, Cicely is 
here and I have wired to the governor. She has led 
us a nice dance, that young woman. But it’s all 
over now.” 

“What has she done.^^ Run away with some 
fellow ” 

“ That’s just what she did do. If I hadn’t been 
pretty quick off the post she’d have been married 
to him by this time.” 

Walter sat down in the chair at his writing-table. 
His face had grown rather serious. He looked as if 
he were prepared to receive the confidences of a 
patient. 

“ Who did she go off with ? ” he asked. 

Dick took a cigarette from the silver box, and lit 
it. “ Mr. Ronald Mackenzie,” he said, as he threw 
the match into the fireplace. 

“ Ronald Mackenzie! Where did she pick him 
up.?” 

“ He picked her up. He was staying at Mount- 
field.” 

“ I know, but he must have seen her before. He 
can’t have persuaded her in five minutes.” 

“ Just what I thought. But he did; damn him! ” 
Then he told Walter everything that had happened, 
in his easy, leisurely way. “ And the great thing 
now is to keep it from the governor,” he ended up. 


266 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Really, it’s pretty strong,” said Walter, after a 
short pause. “ Fancy Cicely! I can’t see her doing 
a thing like that.” 

“ I could have boxed her ears with pleasure when 
I first heard of it,” said Dick. “ But somehow I 
don’t feel so annoyed with her now. Poor little 
beggar! I suppose it’s getting her away from that 
brute. He’d frightened her silly. He nearly got her, 
even when we were there fighting him.” 

“But what about poor old Jim?” asked Walter. 
“ It’s too bad of her, you know, Dick. She was 
engaged to Jim.” 

“ Well, it was a sort of engagement. But I don’t 
blame her much there. If Jim had gone off and 
married some other girl I don’t know that any of us 
would have been very surprised.” 

“ I should.” 

“ Well, you know him better than I do, of course. 
I must say, when he told me in the train coming up 
that he was as much struck on Cicely as ever, it 
surprised me. He’s a funny fellow.” 

“He’s one of the best,” said Walter. “But he 
keeps his feelings to himself. He has always talked 
to me about Cicely, but I know he hasn’t talked to 
anybody else, because Muriel was just as surprised 
as you were when I told her how the land lay.” 

“ He told Mackenzie—that’s the odd thing,” said 
Dick. 

“ Did he?” 

“ Yes. It makes the beast’s action all the worse.” 


AFTER THE STORM 


267 


“ Well, I don’t understand that. Perhaps he had 
a suspicion and gave him a warning.” 

‘‘ I don’t think so. He let him go off after her on 
Sunday afternoon, and didn’t think anything of it. 
However, he’s had a shaking up. He won’t let her 
go now.” 

“ Does he want to marry her still ” 

“ O Lord, yes, more than ever. That’s something 
to be thankful for. It will keep the governor quiet 
if we can hurry it on a bit.” 

“ But he’s not to know.” 

“ He knows she ran away here, without bringing 
any clothes. That’s got to be explained. It’s 
enough for the governor, isn’t it.f’” 

“ I should think so. Enough to go on with. 
Didn’t Jim want to throttle that fellow ? ” 

“ He did before we got there, but he knew he 
couldn’t do anything. It would only have come 
back on Cicely. He behaved jolly well, Jim did. 
He didn’t take the smallest notice of Mackenzie from 
first to last, but he talked to Cicely like a father. 
She says —I don’t say it, mind you—that it was Jim 
who got her away from him; she wouldn’t have 
come for me.” Dick laughed. I dare say we both 
had something to do with it,” he said. “ I got in a 
few home truths. I think Mr. Ronald Mackenzie 
will be rather sorry he came poaching on our land 
when he turns it over in his mind.” 

“ Well,” said Walter, rising, as the luncheon bell 
rang, “ it’s a funny business altogether. You must 


^68 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


tell me more later. Like a wash, Dick? Is Cicely 
going to stay here for a bit? ” 

‘‘ Oh, yes,” replied Dick, as they went out of the 
room. “ Muriel says she’ll keep her. We’ve wired 
for clothes.” He lowered his voice as they went 
upstairs. “ You must go easy with her a bit, you 
and' Muriel,” he said. “ She’s been touched on 
the raw. You’ll find her in rather an excited 
state.” 

‘‘ Oh, I shan’t worry her,” said Walter. “ But I 
think she’s behaved badly to Jim all the same.” 

But Walter’s manner towards his erring sister, 
when they met in the dining-room, showed no sign 
of his feelings, if they were resentful on behalf of his 
friend. She was there with Muriel when he and 
Dick came down. She was pale, and it was plain 
that she had been crying, but the parlour-maid was 
standing by the sideboard, and the two girls were 
talking by the window as if they had not just come 
from a long talk which had disturbed them both 
profoundly. 

“ Well, Cicely,” said Walter. “ Come to see us at 
last! You don’t look very fit, but you’ve come 
to the right man to cure you.” Cicely kissed him 
gratefully, and they sat down at the table. 

The dining-room was Sheraton—good Sheraton. 
On the walls were a plain blue paper and some more 
prints. The silver and glass on the fresh cloth and 
on the sideboard were as bright as possible, for 
Muriel’s parlour-maid was a treasure. She earned 


AFTER THE STORM 


269 


high wages, or she would not have demeaned herself 
by going into service at Melbury Park, where, how¬ 
ever, she had a young man. The cook was also a 
treasure, and the luncheon she served up would not 
have disgraced Kencote, where what is called “ a good 
table ” was kept. It was all great fun—to Muriel, 
and would have been to Cicely too at any other time. 
The little house was beautifully appointed, and 
“ run ” more in the style of a little house in Mayfair 
than in Melbury Park. Muriel, at any rate, was 
completely happy in her surroundings. 

They drank their coffee in the veranda outside 
the drawing-room window. They could hear the 
trains and the trams in the distance, and it seemed 
to be a favourite pursuit of the youths of Melbury 
Park to rattle sticks along the oak fencing of the 
garden, but otherwise they were shut in in a little 
oasis of green and could not be seen or overheard 
by anybody. There were certain things to be said, 
but no one seemed now to wish to refer to Cicely’s 
escapade, the sharp effect of which had been over¬ 
laid by the ordinary intercourse of the luncheon 
table. 

It was Cicely herself who broke the ice. She asked 
Dick nervously when he was going back to Kencote. 

“ Oh, to-morrow, I think,” said Dick. ‘‘ Nothing 
to stay up here for.” 

Muriel said, “ Cicely would like Mrs. Clinton to 
come up. She doesn’t want to ask her in her letter. 
Will you ask her, Dick.'’ ” 


^70 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


Dick hesitated. “ Do you want to tell mother— 
about it.^^” he asked of Cicely. 

“ Yes,” she said. 

“ Well, I think you had much better not. It’ll 
only worry her, and she need never know.” 

“ I am going to tell her,” said Cicely doggedly. 

“ I wouldn’t mind your telling her, if you want to,” 
said Dick, after a pause, “ but it’s dangerous. If 
the governor suspected anything and got it out of 
her-” 

“ Oh, she wouldn’t tell Mr. Clinton,” said Muriel. 
“ I think Cicely is quite ri^ht to tell her. Don’t you, 
Walter.? ” 

“ I suppose so,” said Walter. “ But I think it’s 
a risk. I quite agree with Dick. It must be kept 
from the governor. It’s for your own sake, you 
know. Cicely.” 

“ None of you boys know mother in the least,” 
said Cicely, in some excitement. “ She’s a woman, 
and so you think she doesn’t count at all. She 
counts a great deal to me, and I want her.” 

“All right, my dear,” said Walter kindly. “We 
only want to do what’s best for you. Don’t upset 
yourself. And you’re all right with Muriel and me, 
you know.” 

“ You’re both awfully kind,” said Cicely, more 
calmly, “ and so is Dick now. But I do want mother 
to come, and I l^now she wouldn’t tell father.” 

“ I know it too,” said Muriel. “ I will write to her 
to-night and ask her; only we thought Mr. Clinton 



AFTER THE STORM 


271 


might make some objection, and you could get over 
that, Dick.” 

“ Oh, I’ll get over that all right,” said Dick. 
“ Very well, she shall come. Do you want me to 
tell her anything. Cicely, or leave it all to you.^ ” 

“ You can tell her what I did,” said Cicely in a 
low voice. 

“ All right. I’ll break it gently. Now are we all 
going to Lord’s, or are you two going to stay at 
home ? ” 

“ Cicely is going to lie down,” said Muriel, “ and I 
think I will stay at home and look after her.” She 
threw rather a longing look at Walter. He didn’t 
often allow himself a half holiday, and she liked to 
spend them with him. 

“ Don’t stay for me, Muriel,” Cicely besought her. 
“ I shall be perfectly all right, and I’d really rather 
be alone.” 

‘‘ No,” said Muriel, after another look at Walter. 
“ I’m going to stay at home.” And she wouldn’t 
be moved. 

Walter telephoned for his new motor-car and 
changed his clothes. “ Do you know why Muriel 
wouldn’t come with us ? ” he asked, when he and 
Dick were on their way. ‘‘ It was because she 
thought you and I would rather sit in the pavilion.” 

“ So we would,” said Dick, with a laugh. “ But 
she’s a trump, that girl.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 

The twins arose betimes on the morning after 
Cicely’s flight, determined, as was their custom, to 
enjoy whatever excitement, legal, or within limits 
illegal, was to be wrested from a long new summer 
day, but quite unaware that the whole house around 
them was humming with excitement already. 

For upon Dick’s departure the night before the 
Squire had thrown caution to the winds, and be¬ 
stirred himself, as he said, to get to the bottom of 
things. Not content with Mrs. Clinton’s report of 
Miles’s statement, which was simply that she knew 
nothing, he had “ had Miles up ” and cross-examined 
her himself. He had then had Probin up, the head 
coachman, who would have known if Cicely had been 
driven to the station, which it was fairly obvious 
she had not been. He also had Porter the butler 
up, more because Porter was always had up if any¬ 
thing went wrong in the house than because he could 
be expected to throw any light on what had hap¬ 
pened. And when the groom came back from Mount- 
field with Dick’s note to Mrs. Clinton, late as it was, 
he had him up, and sent him down again to spread 
his news and his suspicions busily, although he had 
272 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 273 


been threatened with instant dismissal if he said a 
word to anybody. 

Having thus satisfied himself of what he knew 
already, that Cicely had walked to the station and 
had taken no luggage with her, and having opened 
up the necessary channels of information, so that 
outdoor and indoor servants alike now knew that 
Cicely had run away and that her father was pre¬ 
pared, as the phrase went, to raise Cain about it, 
the Squire went up to bed, and breaking his usual 
healthy custom of going to sleep immediately he 
laid his head on his pillow, rated Mrs. Clinton 
soundly for not noticing what was going on under her 
very nose. “ I can’t look after everything in the 
house and out of it too,” he ended up. “ I shall be 
expected to see that the twins change their stockings 
when they get their feet wet, next. Good-night, 
Nina. God bless you.” 

So, to return to the twins; when the schoolroom 
maid came to awaken them in the morning and 
found them, as was usual, nearly dressed, they 
learned, for the first time, what had been happening 
while they had slept, all unconscious. 

“ Why can’t you call us in proper time, Hannah ” 
said Joan, as she came in. “ We told you we wanted 
our hot water at half-past three, and it has just 
struck seven. You’ll have to go if you can’t get 
up in time.” 

Hannah deposited a tray containing two large 
cups of tea and some generous slices of bread and 


274 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


butter on a table and said importantly, “ It’s no 
time to joke now, Miss Joan. There’s Miss Clinton 
missing, and most of us kep’ awake half the night 
wondering what’s come of her.” 

Hannah had not before succeeded in making an 
impression upon her young mistresses, but she suc¬ 
ceeded now. Joan and Nancy stared at her with 
open eyes, and gave her time to heighten her effects 
as they redounded to her own importance. 

‘‘ But I can’t stop talking now, miss,” she said. 
“ I’ll just get your ’ot water and then I must go and 
’elp. Here I stop wasting me time, and don’t know 
that something hadn’t ’appened and I may be 
wanted.” 

“ You’re wanted here,” said Joan. ‘‘ What do 
you mean—Miss Clinton missing Has she gone 
away ? ” 

“ I’ll just tell you what I know. Miss Joan,” said 
Hannah, “ and then I must go downstairs and ’elp. 
I was going along the passage by the room last 
night, jest when they was ready to take in dinner, 
and Mr. Porter came along and says to me, ‘ What 
are you doing here.'’ ’ Well, of course, I was struck 
all of a ’eap, because-” 

“ Oh, don’t let’s waste time with her,” interrupted 
Nancy, “ let’s go and ask Miss Bird what it’s all 
about.” 

“Wait a minute. Miss Nancy,” cried Hannah. 
“ I was telling you-” 

But the twins were at the door. “ Lock her in,” 




THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 275 


said Joan. “ We shall want her when we come back.” 
And they locked her in, to the great damage of her 
dignity, and went along the passage to the room 
which had sheltered Miss Bird’s virgin slumbers for 
nearly thirty years. They were at first refused 
admission, but upon Joan’s saying in a clear voice 
outside the door, “ We want to know about Cicely. 
If you won’t tell us we must go and ask the servants,” 
Miss Bird unlocked the door, and was discovered in 
a dressing-gown of pink flannel with her hair in curl 
papers. The twins were too eager for news to re¬ 
mark upon these phenomena, and allowed Miss Bird 
to get back into bed while they sat at the foot of it 
to hear her story. 

“ Well, you must know some time,” said Miss 
Bird, “ and to say that you will ask the servants is 
not the way to behave as you know very well and I 
am the proper person to come to.” 

‘‘Well, we have come to you,” said Joan, “only 
you wouldn’t let us in. Now tell us. Has Cicely 
run away ? ” 

“ Really, Joan, that is a most foolish question,” 
said Miss Bird, “ to call it running away to visit 
Walter and Muriel her oxm brother and sister too as 
you might say and that is all and I suppose it is 
that Hannah who has been putting ideas into your 
head for I came in to see you last night and you 
knew nothing but were both in a sweet sleep and I 
often think that if you could see yourselves then you 
would be more careful how you behave and espe- 


276 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


daily Nancy for it is innocence and goodness itself 
and a pity that it can’t be so sleeping and waking.” 

“ I’ve seen Joan asleep and she looked like a stuck 
pig,” said Nancy. “ But what has happened, star¬ 
ling darling.^ Do tell us. Has Cicely just gone up 
to stay with MurielIs that all.?” 

“ It is very inconsiderate of Cicely,” said Miss 
Bird, “ nobody could possibly have objected to her 
going to stay with Muriel and Miles would have 
packed her clothes and gone up to London with her 
to look after her and to go by herself without a word 
and not take a stitch to put on her back and Mr. 
Clinton in the greatest anxiety and very naturally 
annoyed for with all the horses in the stable to walk 
to Bathgate in this heat for from Kencote she did 
not go one of the men was sent there to inquire I 
wonder at her doing such a thing.” 

“ Keep the facts in your head as they come, 
Joan,” said Nancy. “ She didn’t tell anybody she 
was going. She didn’t take any clothes. She walked 
to Bathgate, I suppose, to put them off the scent.” 

“But whatever did she do it for.?” asked Joan. 
“ Something must have upset her. It is running 
away, you know. I wish she had told us about it.” 

“ We’d have gone with her,” said Nancy. “ She 
must have done it for a lark.” 

“Oh, don’t be a fool,” said Joan. This was one 
of the twins’ formulas. It meant, “ There are serious 
things in life,” and was more often used by Joan than 
by Nancy. 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 277 


“ Joan how often am I to tell you not to use that 
expression? ” said Miss Bird, “ I may speak to the 
winds of Heaven for all the effect it has don’t you 
know that it says he that calleth his brother thou 
fool shall be in danger of hell fire ? ” 

“ Nancy isn’t my brother, and I’ll take the risk,” 
said J oan. “ Didn’t Cicely tell- mother that she was 
going? ” 

“No she did not and for that I blame her,” said 
Miss Bird. “ Mrs. Clinton came to me in the school¬ 
room as I was finishing my dinner and although her 
calmness is a lesson to all of us she was upset as I 
could see and did my very best to persuade her not 
to worry.” 

“ It’s too bad of Cicely,” said Joan. “ What are 
they going to do now ? ” 

“ Your brother Dick went up to London by the 
late train and a telegram was to be sent the first 
thing this morning to relieve all anxiety though 
with Muriel no harm can come to Cicely if she got 
there safely which I hope and trust may be the case 
although to go about London by herself is a thing 
that she knows she would not be allowed to do, but 
there I’m saying a great deal too much to you Joan 
’n Nancy you must not run away with ideas in your 
head Cicely no doubt has a very good reason for what 
she has done and she is years older than both of you 
and you must not ask troublesome questions when 
you go downstairs the only w^ay you can help is by 
holding your tongues and being good girls.” 


278 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Oh, of course, that’s the moral of it,” said 
Nancy. “ If the roof were to fall in all we should 
have to do would be to be good girls and it would get 
stuck on again. Joan, I’m hungry; I must go and 
finish my bread and butter.” 

“ Thank you, starling darling, for telling us,” said 
Joan, rising from her seat on the bed. “ It seems 
very odd, but I dare say we shall get to the bottom 
of it somehow. Of course we shan’t be able to do 
any lessons to-day.” 

“Oh, indeed Joan the very best thing we can do 

to show we-” began Miss Bird, but the twins 

were already out of the room. 

They had to wait some little time before they could 
satisfy their curiosity any further, because, in spite 
of their threat to Miss Bird, and the excellent re¬ 
lations upon which they stood with all the servants 
in the house, they were not in the habit of discuss¬ 
ing family affairs with them, and this was a family 
affair of somewhat portentous bearings. They kept 
Hannah busy about their persons and refused to let 
her open her mouth until they were quite dressed, 
and when they had let themselves loose on the house 
for the day paid a visit to Cicely’s room. 

Its emptiness and the untouched bed sobered them 
a little. “ What did she do it for? ” exclaimed Joan, 
as they stood before the dressing-table upon which 
all the pretty silver toilette articles lying just as 
usual seemed to give the last unaccountable touch of 
reality to the sudden flight. “ Nancy, do you think 



THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 279 


it could have been because she didn’t want to marry 
Jim? ” 

“ Or because Jim didn’t want to marry her,” sug¬ 
gested Nancy. 

But neither suggestion carried conviction. They 
looked about them and had nothing to say. Their 
sister, who in some ways was so near to them, had 
in this receded immeasurably from their standpoint. 
They were face to face with one of those mysterious 
happenings amongst grown ups of which the springs 
were outside the world as they knew it. And Cicely 
was grown up, and she and they, although there was 
so much that they had in common, were different, 
not only in the amount but in the quality of their 
experience of life. 

They always went in to their mother at eight 
o’clock, but were not allowed to go before. They 
did not want to go out of doors while so much was 
happening within, nor to stay in their schoolroom, 
which was the last place to which news would be 
brought; so they perambulated the hall and the 
downstairs rooms and got in the way of the maids 
who were busy with them. And at a quarter to eight 
were surprised by their father’s entrance into the 
library, where they happened to be sitting for the 
moment. 

Their surprise was no greater than his, nor was it 
so effectively expressed. He saw at once, and said 
so, that they were up to some mischief, and he would 
not have it, did they understand that? 


^80 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“We were only sitting talking, father,” said Joan. 
“ There was nowhere else to go.” 

“ I won’t have this room used as a common sitting- 
room,” said the Squire. “ Now go, and don’t let me 
catch you in here again.” 

The twins went out into the big hall. “ Why 
couldn’t you cry a little at being spoke to like that.? ” 
said Nancy. “ He would have told us everything.” 

“ That’s worn out,” replied Joan. “ The last time 
I did it he only said, ‘ For God’s sake don’t begin to 
snivel.’ Besides I was rather frightened.” 

Just then the Squire opened his door suddenly. 
The twins both jumped. But he only said, “ Oh, 
you’re there. Come in here, and shut the door.” 

They went in. “ Now look here,” said the Squire, 
“ you are old enough now to look at things in a 
sensible light. I suppose you have heard that your 
sister has taken it upon herself to take herself off 
without a with your leave or by your leave and has 
turned the whole house topsy-turvy—eh.? ” 

“ Yes, father,” said the twins dutifully. 

“Who told you—eh.?” 

“ Miss Bird, father.” 

“ I wish Miss Bird would mind her own business,” 
said the Squire. “ What did she tell you for.? ” 

“ Because she wanted us to be good girls, and not 
worry you with questions,” replied Nancy. 

“Oh! Well, that’s all right,” said the Squire, 
mollified. 

“ Now what I want to know is—did Cicely say 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET m 


anything to either of you about going away like 
this ? ” 

“ Oh no, father,” replied the twins, with one voice. 

‘‘ Well, I’m determined to get to the bottom of it. 
No daughter of mine shall behave in that way in this 
house. Here’s everything a girl can want to make 
her happy—it’s the ingratitude of it that I can’t 
put up with, and so Miss Cicely shall find when she 
condescends to come home, as she shall do if I have 
to go to fetch her myself.” 

Neither of the twins saw her way to interpose a 
remark. They stood in front of their father as they 
stood in front of Miss Bird in the schoolroom when 
they ‘‘ did repetition.” 

“ Do either of you know if Cicely wasn’t con¬ 
tented or anything of that sort.?^” inquired the 
Squire. 

“ She has been rather off her oats since Muriel was 
married,” said Joan. 

“ Eh! What’s that! ” exclaimed the Squire, bend¬ 
ing his heavy brows on her with a terrific frown. 
“ Do you think this is a time to play the fool—^with 
me ? Off her oats! How dare you speak like that ? 
We shall have you running away next.” 

Joan’s face began to pucker up. ‘‘ I didn’t mean 
anything, father,” she said in a tremulous voice. 
“ I heard you say it the other day.” 

“ There, there, child, don’t cry,” said the Squire. 
‘‘ What I may say and what you may say are two 
very different things. Off her oats, eh.?* Well, she’d 


282 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


better get on her oats again as quick as possible. 
Now, I won’t have you children talking about this, 
do you understand —or Miss Bird either. It’s a 
most disagreeable thing to have happened, and if 
it gets out I shall be very much annoyed. I don’t 
want the servants to know, and I trust you two not 
to go about wagging your tongues, do you hear.? ” 
“ O father, we shouldn’t think of saying anything 
about it to anybody,” exclaimed Nancy. 

“Eh.? What.? There’s nothing to make a mys¬ 
tery about, you know. Cicely has gone up to Lon¬ 
don to visit Walter and Muriel. No reason why 
anybody should know more than that. There isnH 
any more to know, except what concerns me—and I 
won’t have it. Now don’t interrupt me any more. 
Go off and behave yourselves and don’t get in the 
way. You’ve got the whole house to yourselves and 
I don’t want you here. Ring the bell, Joan, I want 
Porter to send a telegram.” 

The twins departed. They could now go up to 
their mother. “ Don’t want the servants to know! ” 
said Nancy as they went upstairs. “ Is it the camel 
or the dromedary that sticks its head in the sand.? ” 
“ The ostrich,” said Joan. “ It seems to me there’s 
a great deal of fuss about nothing. Cicely wanted 
to see her dear Muriel, so she went and saw her. I 
call it a touching instance of friendship.” 

“ And fidelity,” added Nancy. 

Their view of the matter was not contradicted by 
anything that Mrs. Clinton did or said when they 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 283 


went in to her. She was already dressed and moving 
about the room, putting things to rights. It was a 
very big room, so big that even with the bed not yet 
made nor the washstand set in order, it did not look 
like a room that had just been slept in. It was over 
the dining-room and had three windows, before one 
of which was a table with books and writing materials 
on it. There were big, old-fashioned, cane-seated 
and backed easy-chairs, with hard cushions covered 
with chintz, other tables, a chintz-covered couch, a 
bookcase with diamond-paned glass doors. On the 
broad marble mantelpiece were an Empire clock and 
some old china, and over it a long gilt mirror with 
a moulded device of lions drawing chariots and 
cupids flying above them. On the walls, hung with 
a faded paper of roses, were water-colour drawings, 
crayon portraits, some fine line engravings of well- 
known pictures, a few photographs in Oxford frames. 
The bedroom furniture proper was of heavy mahog¬ 
any, a four-post bed hung with white dimity, a 
wardrobe as big as a closet. Nothing was modem 
except the articles on the dressing-table, nothing was 
very old. 

Never later than eight o’clock the Squire would 
rise and go into his dressing-room, and when Mrs. 
Clinton had dressed and in her orderly fashion tidied 
her room she would sit at her table and read until it 
was time to go down to breakfast. Whenever he 
got up earlier she got up earlier too, and had longer 
to spend by the window open to the summer morning. 


284 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


or in the winter with her books on the table lit by 
candles. They were for the most part devotional 
books. But once the Squire had come in to her very 
early one October morning w^hen he was going cub¬ 
hunting and found her reading The Divine Comedy 
with a translation and an Italian dictionary and 
grammar. He had talked of it downstairs as a good 
joke: “Mother reading Dante^—what.?^ ” and she 
had put away those books. 

She was a little paler than usual this morning, but 
the twins noticed no difference in her manner. She 
kissed them and said, “ You have heard that Cicely 
went to London yesterday to stay with Muriel. 
Father is anxious about her, and I am rather anxious 
too, but there is nothing really to worry about. We 
must all behave as usual, and two of us at least 
mustn’t give any cause of complaint to-day.” 

She said this with a smile. It was nothing but a 
repetition of Miss Bird’s exhortation to hold their 
tongues and be good girls, but they embraced her, 
and made fervent promises of good behaviour, which 
they fully intended to keep. Then they read some¬ 
thing for a few minutes with their mother and left 
her to her own reading and her own thoughts. 

The morning post brought no letter from Cicely, 
and again the Squire remained standing while he 
read prayers. Immediately after breakfast he went 
down to the Rectory, ostensibly to warn Tom and 
Grace not to talk, actually to have an opportunity 
of talking himself to a fresh relay of listeners. He 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 285 


expressed his surprise in the same terms as he had 
already used, and said repeatedly that he wouldn’t 
have it. Then, as it was plain that, whether he 
would or no, he already had had it, he rather weakly 
asked the Rector what he would do if he were in his 
place. 

“ Well, Edward,” said the Rector thoughtfully, 
“ of course it is very tiresome and all that, and Cicely 
ought not to have gone off in that way without any 
warning. Still, we don’t know what is going on in 
girls’ minds, do we.^ Cicely is a sensible girl enough, 
and I think when she comes back if you were to 
leave it to Nina to find out what there was to make 
her go off suddenly like that—well, how would that 
be, eh.? ” 

“ I can’t understand it,” said the Squire for the 
twentieth time. “ Nina knows no more about it all 
than I do. I can’t help blaming her for that, be¬ 
cause-” 

“ O Edward,” said Mrs. Beach, ‘‘ whoever is to 
blame, it is not Nina. Cicely is devoted to her, and 
so are the dear twins, for all their general harum- 
scarumness.” 

“ Well, I was going to say,” said the Squire, who 
had been going to say something quite different, 

that Nina is very much upset about this. She takes 
everything calmly enough, as you know, but she’s a 
good mother to her children—I will say that for 
her—and it’s enough to upset any woman when her 
daughter behaves to her in this monstrous fashion.” 



^86 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ How do you think it would be,” asked the Rector, 
“ if Nina were to go up to London and have a talk 
with Cicely there ? ” 

The Squire hummed and ha’d. “ I don’t see the 
sense of making more fuss about it than has been 
made already,” he said. “ I told Nina this morning, 
‘ If you go posting off to London,’ I said, ‘ every¬ 
body will think that something dreadful has hap¬ 
pened. Much better stop where you are.’ ” 

If she wants to go,” said Mrs. Beach, “ I think it 
would be the very best thing. She would bring 
Cicely to a right frame of mind—nobody could do it 
better; and you would be at home, Edward, to see 
that nothing was done here to complicate matters. 
I think that would be very important, and nobody 
could do that but you.” 

“ So you think it would be a good idea if I let Nina 
go up to her.? ” said the Squire. 

The Rector and Mrs. Beach both thought it would 
be a very good idea. 

“ Well,” said the Squire, ‘‘ I thought perhaps it 
would, but I hadn’t quite made up my mind about 
it. I thought we’d better wait, at any rate, till we 
got an answer to my wire to Walter. And that 
reminds me—I’d better be getting back. Well, 
good-bye, Tom, good-bye, my dear Grace. Of course 
I needn’t ask either of you not to let this sro any 
further.” 

The non-arrival of an answer to his message had 
a cumulative effect upon the Squire’s temper during 


THE WHOLE HOUSE UPSET 287 


the morning. At half-past eleven o’clock he gained 
some temporary relief to his discomfort by despatch¬ 
ing another one, and did not entirely recover his 
balance until Dick’s telegram arrived about luncheon 
time. Then he calmed down suddenly, joked with 
the twins over the table and told Miss Bird that she 
was getting younger every day. He also gave Mrs. 
Clinton her marching orders. “ I think you had bet¬ 
ter go up, Nina,” he said, “ and see what the young 
monkey has been after. I’m excessively annoyed 
with her, and you can tell her so; but if she really is 
with Walter and Muriel I don’t suppose any harm 
has come to her. I must say it’s a relief. Still, 
I’m very angry about it, and so she’ll find out when 
she comes home.” 

So another telegram was despatched, and Mrs. 
Clinton went up to London by the afternoon train 
accompanied by the discreet and faithful Miles. 


CHAPTER XX 


MRS. CLINTON 

That night Cicely and her mother sat late together 
in Mrs. Clinton’s bedroom. Mrs. Clinton was in a 
low easy-chair and Cicely on a stool at her feet. 
Outside was the continuous and restless echo of 
London pushing up to the very feet of its encircling 
hills, but they were as far removed from it in spirit 
as if they had been at home in still and spacious 
Kencote. 

Mrs. Clinton had arrived at Muriel’s house in time 
for dinner. Walter had come home from Lord’s 
soon enough to meet her at the station and bring 
her out in his motor-car. He had made Miles sit in 
front with his servant and he had told his mother 
what Dick would have told her if she had waited to 
come to Cicely until after he had returned to Ken¬ 
cote. She had listened to him in silence as he un¬ 
folded his story, making no comment even when he 
told her of Dick’s opening her daughter’s letter to 
her; but when he told her that Cicely had asked that 
she should be sent for she had clasped her hands and 
said, “ Oh, I am so glad.” 

Muriel had met her at the door, but Cicely had 
stayed in the drawing-room, pale and downcast. 
She had gone in to her alone and kissed her and said, 
288 


MRS. CLINTON 


289 


“ I am glad you wanted your mother, my darling. 
You shall tell me everything to-night when we go 
upstairs, and we won’t think about it any more until 
then.” 

So the evening had passed almost pleasantly. At 
times even Cicely must have forgotten what lay 
behind and before her, for she had laughed and 
talked with a sort of feverish gaiety; only after such 
outbursts she had grown suddenly silent and trem¬ 
bled on the verge of tears. Walter had watched 
her and sent her upstairs before ten o’clock, and her 
mother had gone up with her and helped her to 
undress as if she had been a child again. Then she 
had put on her dressing-gown and gone to Mrs. 
Clinton’s room, and resting her head on her mother’s 
knee had told her everything with frequent tears 
and many exclamations at her own madness and 
folly. 

It was more difficult to tell even than she had 
thought. When all was said about her discontent 
and the suddenness with which she had been urged 
towards a way of escape from surroundings that now 
seemed inexpressibly dear to her, there remained 
that inexcusable fault of leaving her mother without 
a word, for a man whom she couldn’t even plead 
that she loved. With her mother’s hand caressing 
her hair it seemed to her incredible that she could 
have done such a thing. She begged her forgiveness 
again and again, but each time that she received 
loving words in answer she felt that it must be im- 


^90 THE SQUIRE’S D 2 VUGHTER 


possible that they could ever be to one another again 
what they had been. 

At last Mrs. Clinton said, ‘‘ You must not think 
too much of that, my darling. You were carried 
away; you hardly knew what you were doing. It 
is all wiped out in my mind by your wanting me 
directly you came to yourself. We won’t talk of it 
any more. But what we ought to talk of. Cicely 
dear, and try to see our way through, is the state of 
mind you had got into, which made what happened 
to you possible, and gave this man his opportunity. 
I think that six months ago, although he might have 
tried to behave in the same way, you would only 
have been frightened; you would have come straight 
to me and told me.” 

“ Oh yes, I should, mother,” she cried. 

‘‘ Then what was it that has come between us.? 
You have told me that you were discontented at 
home, but couldn’t you have told me that before.^” 

Cicely was silent. Why hadn’t she told her mother, 
to whom she had been used to tell everything, of her 
discontent A sudden blush ran down from her 
cheeks to her neck. It was because she had judged 
her mother, as well as her father and brothers, her 
mother who had accepted the life that she had kicked 
against and had bent a meek head to the whims of 
her master. She couldn’t tell her that. 

“ The thing that decided me,” she began hesitat¬ 
ingly, “ when I was sitting in my room that night not 
knowing what I was going to do, I heard father and 


MRS. CLINTON 


291 


Dick talking as they came up, and they had decided 
to turn Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura out of the house 
they had lived in nearly all their lives and let it to 
those MacLeod people. It seemed to me so—so 
selfish and—and horrible.” 

“ You cannot have heard properly,” said Mrs. 
Clinton. “ It was what they had decided not to do. 

Father woke me up to tell me so. But even if- 

I don’t understand. Cicely dear.” 

“ O mother, can’t you see.^* ” cried Cicely. “ If I 
was wrong about that, and I’m very glad I was, it is 
just what they might have done. They had talked 
it all over again and again, and they couldn’t make 
up their minds—and before us! ” 

“Before us.?” 

“ Yes. We are nobodies. If father were to die 
Dick would turn us out of the house as a matter of 
course. He would have everything; we should have 
nothing.” 

Mrs. Clinton was clearly bewildered. “ Dick would 
not turn us out of the house unless he were married,” 
she said, “ and we should not have nothing. We 
should be very well off. But surely, Cicely, it is 
impossible that you can have been thinking of money 
matters in that way! You cannot be giving me a 
right impression of what has been in your mind.” 

“ No, it isn’t that,” said Cicely. “ I don’t know 
anything about money matters, and I haven’t 
thought about them—not in that way. But father 
and the boys do talk about money; a lot seems to 



292 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


depend upon it, and I can’t help seeing that they 
spend a great deal of money on whatever they want 
to do, and we have to take what’s left.” 

“ Still I don’t understand, dear,” said Mrs. Clin¬ 
ton. “ Certainly it costs a great deal to keep up a 
house like Kencote; but it is our home; we are all 
happy there together.” 

“ Are you quite happy there, mother.? ” asked 
Cicely. 

Mrs. Clinton put by the question. You know, 
of course,” she went on, “ that we are well off, a 
good deal better off than most families who have big 
properties to keep up. For people in our position 
we live simply, and if—if I were to outlive father, 
and you and the children were still unmarried, we 
should live together—not in such a big house as 
Kencote—but with everything we could desire, or 
that would be good for us.” 

“ And if we lived like that,” said Cicely, “ wouldn’t 
you think some things good for us that we don’t 
have, mother.? If we had horses, wouldn’t you let 
me have one to ride.? Wouldn’t you take me to 
London sometimes, not to go to smart parties, but 
to see something of interesting people as Angela and 
Beatrice do at Aunt Emmeline’s, and see plays and 
pictures and hear music.? Wouldn’t you take us 
abroad sometimes.? Should we have to live the whole 
year round in the country, doing nothing and know¬ 
ing nothing ? ” 

Mrs. Clinton’s hand stopped its gentle, caressing 


MRS. CLINTON 


293 


movement, and then went on again. During the 
moment of pause she faced a crisis as vital as that 
which Cicely had gone through. She had had just 
those desires in her youth and she had stifled them. 
Could they be stifled—would it be right to stifle 
them—in the daughter who had, perhaps, inherited 
them from her.? 

“ You asked me just now,” she said, “ whether I 
was happy. Yes, I am happy. I have my dear ones 
around me, I have my religion, I have my place in 
the world to fill. I should be very ungrateful if I 
were not happy. But if you ask me whether the 
life I lead is exactly what it would be if it rested 
only with me to order it—I think you know that it 
isn’t.? ” 

“ But why shouldn’t it be, mother.? Other women 
do the things they like, and father and the boys do 
exactly what they like. If you have wanted the 
same things that I want now, I say you ought to 
have had them.” 

“ If I had had them. Cicely, I should not have 
found out one very great thing—that happiness does 
not come from these things; it does not come from 
doing what you like, even if what you like is good in 
itself. I might almost say that it comes from not 
doing what you like. That is the lesson that I have 
learned of life, and I am thankful that it has been 
taught me.” 

Cicely was silent for a time. She seemed to see 
her mother, dear as she had been to her, in a new 


^94 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


light, with a halo of uncomplaining self-sacrifice 
round her. Her face burned as she remembered how 
that morning in church, and since, she had thought 
of her as one who had bartered her independence 
for a life of dull luxury and stagnation. It came 
upon her with a flash of insight that her mother 
was a woman of strong intelligence, who had, con¬ 
sciously, laid her intellectual gifts on the altar of 
duty, and found her reward in doing so. The 
thought found ineffective utterance. 

“ Of course it is from you that Walter gets his 
brains,” she said. 

Mrs. Clinton did not reply to this. “ You are 
very young to learn the lesson,” she said. “ I am 
not sure—I don’t think it is a lesson that every one 
need learn—that every woman need learn. I should 
like you to make use of your brains—if that is really 
what you have been unhappy about. Cicely. But is 
it so, my dear.^ ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Cicely. “ I suppose not. 
If I had wanted to learn things, there are plenty of 
books at Kencote and I had plenty of time. It was 
in London—it was just one of the things. First I 
was jealous—I suppose it was that—because Dick 
and Humphrey had always had such a good time 
and seemed to belong to everything, and I was so 
out of it all. I still think that very unfair. Then 
when I went to Aunt Emmeline’s and saw what a 
good time Angela and Beatrice had in a different 
sort of way—I wanted that too. And I think that 


MRS. CLINTON 


295 


is unfair. When I talked to them—I like them very 
much, but I suppose they wanted to show how much 
better off they were than I am—the only thing they 
seemed to think I was lucky in was my allowance, 
and even then they said they didn’t see how I could 
spend it, as I never went anywhere. I felt so ig¬ 
norant beside them. Once Angela said something 
to me in French—the maid was in the room—and I 
didn’t understand her. I was ashamed. Mother, I 
think I ought to have had the chances that Angela 
and Beatrice have had.” 

Mrs. Clinton listened with a grave face. How 
could she not have believed most of it to be true.?^ 
She knew that, in marrying her, her husband had 
been considered to be marrying rather beneath him. 
And yet, her brother’s daughters were—there was 
no doubt of it—better fitted to take a place, even a 
high place, in the world than her own daughter. 
Her husband could never have seen it, but she knew 
that it was true. Her younger niece was already 
engaged to be married to a man of some mark in the 
world, and she would be an intellectual companion 
to him. If Cicely had caught the fancy of such a 
man she would have had everything to learn. Even 
in this deplorable danger through which she had just 
passed, it was her ignorance that had laid her open to 
it. Perhaps her very ignorance had attracted the 
man to her, but he certainly would not have been 
able so to bend her to his will if she had lived more 
in the world. 


296 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ There is one thing, darling,” said Mrs. Clinton, 
“ that we have not spoken of. I don’t want to com¬ 
plicate the troubles you are passing through, but it 
has a bearing on what you have been saying.” 

“ You mean about Jim,” said Cicely courageously. 

“ Yes. Father and I have both been very glad 
of what we have always looked upon as an engage¬ 
ment, although it could not be a recognised one 
when—^when it was first mooted. You must remem¬ 
ber, dear, that we are country people. It seems to 
us natural that our daughters should marry country 
gentlemen—should marry into the circle of our 
friends and neighbours. And the prospect of your 
living near us has always given us great pleasure. 
You seemed to me quite happy at home, and I thought 
you would have the best chance of happiness in your 
married life in another home not unlike ours. I 
thought you were well fitted to fill that place. I did 
not think of you—I don’t think it ever crossed my 
mind to think of you—as wanting a different life, 
the sort of life that your cousins lead, for instance.” 

‘‘ Jim was very good to me, this morning,” Cicely 
said, in a low voice. ‘‘ I love him for it. Of course 
I do love him, in a way, just as I love Dick or Wal¬ 
ter. I was very much ashamed at having left him 
like that, for somebody who—who isn’t as good as he 
is. Jim is good, in a way a man ought to be. But, 
mother—I can’t marry Jim now, after this.” 

“ It is too soon to talk of it, or perhaps even to 
think of it. And you have no right to marry any- 


MRS. CLINTON 


m 

body unless you love him as a woman should love 
her husband, not as you love , your brothers. We 
need not talk of marriage now at all. But, my 
dearest, I want you to be happy when you come home 
again. If you come back to think that you are badly 
used, that-” 

“ Oh, but, mother,” Cicely interrupted her, “ that 
is all over. I have only been trying to tell you what 
I did feel. I never thought of the other side at all. 
Last night I lay awake and simply longed for home. 
I have been very ungrateful. I love Kencote, and 
the country and everything I do there, really. I 
never knew before how much I loved it. It was a 
sort of madness that came over me.” 

“ I am glad you feel like that^ You have a very 
beautiful home, and you are surrounded by those 
who love you. You ought to be able to make your¬ 
self happy at home, even if you have not got every¬ 
thing that you might like to have. Can you do so ? ” 

“ Yes, mother, I can. I was happy enough 
before.” 

“ Before you went to London.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, I suppose it was that. I must be very 
foolish to let a visit to London upset me. I don’t 
want to see London again now for a long time. O 
mother, I have been very wicked. You won’t be 
different to me, will you.^^” 

She buried her face in her mother’s lap. She was 
overwrought and desperately tired. Mrs. Clinton 
felt that except for having done something towards 



298 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


healing the wound made by her late experience she 
had accomplished little. Cicely’s eyes had been 
partially opened, and it was not in her mother’s 
power to close them again. It was only natural that 
she should now turn for a time eagerly towards the 
quiet life she had been so eager to run away from. 
But when her thoughts had settled down again, when 
weeks and months had divided her from her painful 
awakening, and its memory had worn thin, would 
she then be content, or would these desires, which 
no one could say were unreasonable, gain strength 
again to unsettle and dispirit her.?^ It was only too 
likely. And if they did, what chance was there of 
satisfying them.?^ 

Mrs. Clinton thought over these things when she 
had tucked Cicely up in her bed and sat by her side 
until she was asleep. Cicely had begged her to do 
this. Cicely, her mother’s child again, who, the night 
before had lain awake hour after hour, alone, trem¬ 
bling at the unknown and longing for the dear fa¬ 
miliar. There was deep thankfulness in the mother’s 
heart as she watched over her child restored to her 
love and protection, but there was sadness too, and 
some fear of the future, which was not entirely in 
her hands. 

Cicely was soon asleep. Mrs. Clinton gently dis¬ 
engaged the hand she had been holding, stood for a 
time looking down upon her, fondly but rather sadly, 
and crept out of the room. It was nearly one 
o’clock, so long had their confidences lasted, but as 


MRS. CLINTON 


299 


she came downstairs, for Cicely’s room was on the 
second floor, Walter came out of his bedroom 
dressed to go out. 

‘‘Hullo, mother!” he said. “Not in bed yet! 
I’ve been called up. Child with croup. I don’t 
suppose I shall be long, and Muriel is going down 
to make me some soup. If you’d like a yarn with 
her-” 

Muriel came out in her dressing-gown. “ I said I 
would always make him soup when he was called out 
at night,” she said, “ and this is the first time. I’m 
a good doctor’s wife, don’t you think so, Mrs. Clin¬ 
ton ? Is Cicely asleep ? ” 

“ Yes, I have just left her. I will come down with 
you, dear, and help you make Walter’s soup.” 

So they went down together and when they had 
done their work, bending together over a gas stove 
in the kitchen, which was the home of more black 
beetles than was altogether desirable, although it 
was otherwise clean and bright and well-fumished, 
they sat by the dining-room table awaiting Walter’s 
return. 

There was sympathy between Mrs. Clinton and her 
daughter-in-law, who recognised her fine qualities 
and loved her for them, privately thinking that she 
was a woman ill-used by fate and her husband. Mrs. 
Graham thought so too, but she and Mrs. Clinton had 
little in common, and in spite of mutual esteem, 
could hardly be called friends. But the tie which 
had bound Muriel to Kencote all her life had de- 



800 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


pended almost as much upon Mrs. Clinton as upon 
Cicely, and until the last few months more than it 
had upon Walter. They could talk together knowing 
that each would understand the other, and Muriel’s 
downrightness did not offend Mrs. Clinton. 

She plunged now into the middle of things. “ You 
know it is Jim I am thinking of, Mrs. Clinton,” she 
said, “ now that this extraordinary business is over. 
I want to know where Jim comes in.” 

“ I am afraid, my dear,” said Mrs. Clinton, with a 
smile, “ that poor Jim has come in very little.” 

‘‘ Did you know,” asked Muriel, “ that Jim was 
head over ears in love with Cicely, or did you think, 
like everybody else, that he was slack about it ? ” 

Mrs. Clinton thought for a moment. “ I have 
never thought of him as head over ears in love with 
Cicely,” she said. 

“ And I didn’t either, till Walter told me. But he 
is. He behaved like a brick to-day. Dick told Wal¬ 
ter. And Cicely told me too. It was Jim who got 
her away from that man—^the horrible creature! 
How can a man be such a brute, Mrs. Clinton?” 

‘‘ I don’t want to talk about him, Muriel,” said 
Mrs. Clinton quietly. “ He has come into our life 
and he has gone out again. I hope we shall never 
see him again.” 

“ If I ever see him,” said Muriel, “ nothing shall 
prevent my telling him what I think of him. How 
Cicely could! Poor darling, she doesn’t know how 
she could herself, now. She told me that she saw 


MRS. CLINTON 


301 


him as he was beside Jim and Dick. He isn’t a 
gentleman, for all the great things he has done, and 
somehow that little fact seemed to have escaped her 
until then. Don’t you think it is rather odd that 
it matters so tremendously to women like us whether 
the men we live with are gentlemen or not, and yet 
we are so liable at first to make mistakes about 
them.? ” 

Mrs. Clinton was not quite equal to the discussion 
of a general question. “ It would matter to any one 
brought up as Cicely has been,” she said, “ or you. 
Can you tell me exactly what you mean when you 
say that Jim is head over ears in love with Cicely? 
I don’t think he has shown it to her.” 

“ Nobody quite knows Jim, except Walter,” re¬ 
plied Muriel. “ I don’t, and mother doesn’t; and 
dear father never did. I suppose there is not much 
doubt about his being rather slow. Slow and sure 
is just the phrase to fit him. He is sure of himself 
when he makes up his mind about a thing, and I 
suppose he was sure of Cicely. He was just content 
to wait. You know, I’m afraid Walter thinks that 
Cicely has behaved very badly to him.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” asked Mrs. Clinton. 

Muriel hesitated. “ I think what Walter does,” 
she said, rather doggedly. “ But I don’t feel it so 
much. I love Cicely, and I am very sorry for her.” 

“ Why are you sorry for her? ” 

“ Oh, well, one could hardly help being after what 
she has gone through.” 


802 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Only that, Muriel? ” 

Muriel hesitated again. “ I don’t think she has 
had quite a fair chance,” she said. 

“ She has had the same chances that you have 
had.” 

“ Not quite, I think,” said Muriel. She spoke 
with her head down and a face rather flushed, as if 
she was determined to go through with something 
unpleasant. “ I’m not as clever as she is, but if I 
had been—if I had wanted the sort of things that 
she wants—I should have had them.” 

“ I think she could have had them, if she had 
really wanted them,” said Mrs. Clinton quietly. 

I think I should have seen that she did have 
them.” 

“ Oh, dear Mrs. Clinton, don’t think I’m taking 
it on myself to blame you. You know I wouldn’t 
do that. But I must say what I think. Life is 
desperately dull for a girl at houses like Kencote 
or Mountfield.” 

“ Kencote and Mountfield ? ” 

“ Well, don’t be angry with me if I say it is much 
more dull at Kencote than at Mountfield. Cicely 
isn’t even allowed to hunt. I was, and yet I was 
glad enough to get away from it, although I love 
country life, and so does Walter. We never see 
anybody, we never go anywhere. I am heaps and 
heaps happier in this little house of my own than I 
was at Mountfield.” 

“ Muriel,” said Mrs. Clinton^ “ what is it that 


MRS. CLINTON 


303 


Cicely wants? You and she talk of the same things. 
First it is one thing and then it is another. First it 
is that she has had no chances of learning. What 
has she ever shown that she wants to learn? Then 
it is that she does not go away, and does not see 
new faces. Is that a thing of such importance that 
the want of it should lead to what has happened? 
Then it is that she is not allowed to hunt! I will not 
add to Cicely’s trouble now by rebuking these de¬ 
sires. Only the first of them could have any weight 
with me, and I do not think that has ever been a 
strong desire, or is now, for any reason that is worth 
taking into consideration. But the plain truth of the 
whole trouble is that Cicely had her mind upset by 
her visit to London two months ago. Yow should 
not encourage her in her discontent. Her only 
chance of happiness is to see where her duty lies 
and to gauge the amusements that she cannot have at 
their true value.” 

“ I haven’t encouraged her,” said Muriel, I said 
much the same as you have when she first talked to 
me. I told her she had had her head turned. But, 
all the same, I think there is something in what she 
says, and at any rate, she has felt it so strongly as 
nearly to spoil her life in trying to get away from 
it all. She’ll be pleased enough to get home now, 
if—if—well, excuse my saying it, but—if Mr. Clinton 
will let her alone—and yet, it will all come back on 
her when she has got used to being at home. Do you 
know what I think, Mrs. Clinton? I think the only 


i 


304 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


thing that will give her back to herself now is for her 
to marry Jim as quickly as possible.” 

“ But Kencote and Mountfield both are desperately 
dull for a girl! ” 

Muriel laughed. “ She wouldn’t find Mountfield 
so if she really loved Jim. I don’t know whether 
she does or not. She won’t hear of him now.” 

Mrs. Clinton was silent for a time. Then she said 
slowly, ‘‘ It was Jim who rescued her to-day from a 
great danger. I think it is only Jim who can rescue 
her from herself.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


cicely’s retuen 

“ When Cicely comes, send her in to me at once,” 
said the Squire, with the air of a man who was going 
to take a matter in hand. 

Cicely, convoyed by the reliable Miles, was return¬ 
ing to Kencote after having stayed with Muriel for 
a fortnight. Mrs. Clinton had left her at Melbury 
Park after a three days’ visit. 

“And I won’t have the children meeting her, or 
anything of that sort,” added the Squire. “ She is 
not coming home in triumph. You can go to the 
door, Nina, and send her straight in to me. We’ll 
get this business put right once for all.” 

Mrs. Clinton said nothing, but went out of the 
room. She could have small hopes that her husband 
would succeed when she had failed in putting the 
business right. She told herself now that she had 
failed. During her many talks with Cicely, although 
she had been able, with her love and wisdom, to 
soothe the raw shame that had come upon her 
daughter when she had looked back in cold blood 
to her flight with Mackenzie, she had not been able 
to do away with the feeling of resentment with which 
Cicely had come to view her home life. Her 
weapons had turned back upon herself. Neither 
305 


306 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


of them had been able to say to each other exactly 
whai was in their mind, and because Cicely had to 
stay herself with some reason for her action, which 
witli her father, at any rate, must be defended 
somehow, she had fallen back upon the causes of her 
discontent and held to them even against her mother. 
And there was enough truth in them to make it dif¬ 
ficult for Mrs. Clinton to combat her attitude, with¬ 
out saying, what she could not say, that it was the 
duty of every wife and every daughter to do as 
she had done, and rigidly sink her own personality 
where it might clash with the smallest wish or action 
of her husband. She claimed to have gained her 
own happiness in doing so, but the doctrine of happi¬ 
ness through such self-sacrifice was too hard a one 
for a young girl to receive. She had gained Cicely’s 
admiration and a more understanding love from the 
self-revelation which in some sort she had made, but 
she had not availed to make her follow her example, 
and could not have done so without holding it up 
as the one right course. Cicely must fight her own 
battle with her father, and whichever of them proved 
the victor no good could be expected to come of it. 
She was firm in her conviction now that in Jim Gra^ 
ham’s hands lay the only immediate chance of happi^ 
ness for her daughter. But Jim had held quite aloof. 
No word had been heard from him, and no one had 
seen him since he had parted with Dick on the evening 
after their journey to London, when they had dined 
together and Jim had said he would bide his chance. 


CICELY’S RETURN SOT 

If he were to sink back now into what had seemed his 
old apathy, he would lose Cicely again and she would 
lose her present chance of happiness. 

The twins, informed by their mother that they 
must not go to the station to meet Cicely, or even 
come down into the hall, but that she would come 
up to them when she had seen her father, of course 
gathered, if they had not gathered it before, that 
their elder sister was coming home in disgrace, and 
spent their leisure time in devising methods to show 
that they did not share in the disapprobation; in 
which they were alternately encouraged and thwarted 
by Miss Bird, whose tender affection for Cicely 
warred with her fear of the Squire’s displeasure. 

Mrs. Clinton was in the hall when the carriage 
drove up. Cicely came in, on her face an expression 
of mixed determination and timidity, and her 
mother drew her into the morning-room. “ Father 
wants to see you at once, darling,” she said. “ You 
must be good. If you can make him understand 
ever so little you know he will be kind.” 

It was doubtful if this hurried speech would help 
matters at all, and there was no time for more, for 
the Squire was at his door asking the servants where 
Miss Clinton was, for he wanted to see her at once. 

“ I am here, father,” said Cicely, going out into the 
hall again. 

‘‘ I want you in here,” said the Squire. They 
went into his room and the door was shut, leaving 
Mrs. Clinton alone outside. 


308 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


The Squire marched up to the empty fireplace and 
took his stand with his back to it. Cicely sat down 
in one of the big chairs, which seemed to disconcert 
him for a moment. 

“ I don’t know whether you have come home ex¬ 
pecting to be welcomed as if nothing had happened,” 
he began. 

“ No, I don’t expect that, father,” said Cicely. 

“Oh! Well now, what is the meaning of it.^^ 
That’s what I want to know. . I have been pretty 
patient, I think. You have had your fling for over 
a fortnight, the whole house has been upset and I’ve 
said nothing. Now I want to get to the bottom 
of it. Because if you think that you can behave in 
that way ”—here followed a vivid summary of the 
way in which Cicely had behaved—“ you are very 
much mistaken.” The Squire was now fairly 
launched. It only rested with Cicely to keep him 
going with a word every now and then, for she knew 
that until he had wrought himself into a due state 
of indignation and then given satisfactory vent to it, 
nothing she could say would have any effect at all. 

“ I am very sorry, father,” she said. “ I know it 
was wrong of me, and I won’t do it again.” 

This was all that was wanted. “ Won’t do it 
again?” echoed the Squire. “No, you won’t do it 
again. I’ll take good care of that.” He then went 
on to bring home to her the enormity of her offence, 
which seemed to have consisted chiefly in upsetting 
the whole house, which he wouldn’t have, and so on. 


CICELY’S RETURN 


309 


But when he had repeated all he had to say twice, 
and most of it thre« or four times, he suddenly took 
his seat in the chair opposite to her and said in quite 
a different tone, “ What on earth made you do it. 
Cicely? ” and her time had come. 

“ I was not happy at home, father,” she said 
quietly. 

This set the Squire off on another oration, tending 
to show that it was positively wicked to talk like 
that. There wasn’t a girl in England who had more 
done for her. He himself spent his days and nights 
chiefly in thinking what he could do for the happi¬ 
ness of his children, and the same might be said of 
their mother. He enumerated the blessings Cicely 
enjoyed, amongst which the amount of money spent 
upon keeping up a place like Kencote bulked largely. 
When he had gone over the field a second time, and 
picked up the gleanings left over from his sheaves 
of oratory, he asked her, apparently as a matter of 
kindly curiosity, what she had to grumble about. 

She told him dispiritedly, leaving him time after 
each item of her discontent to put her in the wrong. 

Item: She had nothing to do at home. 

He said amongst other things that he had in that 
very room a manuscript volume compiled by her 
great-great-grandmother full of receipts and so 
forth, which he intended to get published some day 
to show what women could do in a house if they really 
did what they ought. 

Item: She hadn’t been properly educated. 


SIO THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


That was wicked nonsense, and he wondered at a 
daughter of his talking such trash. In the course of 
further remarks he said that when all the girls in 
the board schools could play the piano and none of 
them could cook, he supposed the Radicals would be 
satisfied. 

Item: There were a great many horses in the 
stable and she was not allowed to ride one of 
them. 

Did she think she had gone the right way to work 
to have horses given her, bolting out of the house 
without a with your leave or a by your leave, etc.? 
Had her six great-aunts ever wanted horses to ride? 
Hunting he would not have. He might be old- 
fashioned, he dared say he was, but to see a woman 

tearing about the country, etc.-! But if she had 

come to him properly, and it had been otherwise 
convenient, he gave her to understand that a horse 
might have been found for her at any time. He did 
not say that one would be found for her now. 

Item: She never went anywhere. 

A treatise on gadding about, with sub-sections 
devoted to the state of drains in foreign cities, the 
game of Bridge, as played in country houses, and the 
overcrowded state of the Probate and Divorce 
Court. 

Item: She never saw anybody interesting. 

A flat denial, and in the course of its expansion a 
sentence that brought the blood to Cicely’s face and 
left her pale and terrified. “ Why, only the other 



CICELY’S RETURN 


311 


day,” said the Squire, “ one of the most talked of 
men in England dined here. I suppose you would 
call Ronald Mackenzie an interesting man, eh.f* 
Why, what’s the matter Aren’t you well.^ ” 

“ Oh yes, father dear. Please go on.” 

The Squire went on. Fortunately he had not no¬ 
ticed the sudden blush, but only the paleness that 
had followed it. Supposing he had seen, and her 
secret had been dragged out of her! She gave him 
no more material on which to exercise his gift of 
oratory, but sat silent and frightened while he dealt 
further with the subject in hand and showed her that 
she was fortunate in living amongst the most inter¬ 
esting set of people in England. Her uncle Tom 
knew as much as anybody about butterflies, her 
Aunt Grace played the piano remarkably well for 
an amateur. Sir Ralph Perry, who lived at Warnton 
Court, four miles away, had written a book on fly¬ 
fishing, the Rector of Bathgate had published a 
volume of sermons, the Vicar of Blagden rubbed 
brasses, Mrs. Kingston of Axtol was the daughter of 
a Cambridge professor, and the Squire supposed he 
was not entirely destitute of intelligence himself. 
At any rate, he had corresponded with a good many 
learned gentlemen in his time, and they seemed anx¬ 
ious enough to come to Kencote, and didn’t treat 
him exactly as if he were a fool when they did come. 

“ The upshot of it all is. Cicely,” concluded the 
Squire, ‘‘ that you want a great many things that you 
can’t have and are not going to have, and the sooner 


312 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


you see that and settle down sensibly to do your duty 
the better.” 

“ Yes, father,” said Cicely, longing to get away. 

The Squire bethought himself. He had nothing 
more to say, although as he was considering what to 
do next he said over again a few of the more salient 
things that he had said before. He hoped he had 
made an impression, but he would have liked to end 
up on a note rather less tame than this. With 
Cicely so meek and quiet, however, and his indigna¬ 
tion against her, already weakened by having been 
spread over a fortnight, having now entirely evapor¬ 
ated by being expressed, as his indignation generally 
did evaporate, he had arrived somehow at a loose 
end. He looked at his daughter for the first time 
with some affection, and noticed that she was pale, 
and, he thought, thinner. 

‘‘ Come here and give me a kiss,” he said, and she 
went to him and put her head on his big shoulder. 
“ Now you’re going to be a good girl and not give 
us any more trouble, aren’t you.^ ” he said, patting 
her on the sleeve; and she promised that she would 
be a good girl and not give any more trouble, with 
mental reservations mercifully hidden from him. 

“ There, don’t cry,” said the Squire. “ We won’t 
say any more about it; and if you want a horse to 
ride, we’ll see if we can’t find you a horse to ride. 
I dare say you think your old father a terrible 
martinet, but it’s all for your good, you know. You 
must say to yourself when you feel dissatisfied about 


CICELY’S RETURN 


313 


some little twopenny-halfpenny disappointment that 
he knows best.” 

Cicely gave him a hug. He was a dear old thing 
really, and if one could only always bear in mind the 
relative qualities of his bark and his bite there would 
be no need at all to go in awe of him. “ Dear old 
daddy,” she said. “ I am sorry I ran away, and I’m 
very glad to get home again.” 

Then she went upstairs quite lightheartedly, and 
along the corridor to the schoolroom. The twins, 
arrayed in long blue overalls, were tidying up, after 
lessons, and Miss Bird was urging them to more con¬ 
scientious endeavour, avowing that it was no more 
trouble to put a book on a shelf the right way than 
the wrong way, and that if there were fifty servants 
in the house it would be wrong to throw waste paper 
in the fireplace, since waste paper baskets existed to 
have waste paper thrown into them and fireplaces did 
not. 

After a minute pause of observation, the twins 
threw themselves upon Cicely with one accord and 
welcomed her vociferously, and Miss Bird followed 
suit. 

“ My own darling,” she said warmly, “ we have 
missed you dreadfully and how are Muriel and 
Walter I suppose as happy as anything now Joan ’n 
Nancy there is no occasion to pull Cicely to pieces 
you can be glad to see her without roughness and 
go at once and take off your overalls and wash your 
hands for tea I dare say Cicely will go with you.” 


314 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ Have you been to your room yet, darling? ” 
asked Joan. 

“ Not yet,” said Cicely. 

“ Now straight to your own room first,” said Miss 
Bird, clapping her hands together to add weight to 
her command. “ You can go with Cicely after¬ 
wards.” 

“ All right, starling darling, we’ll be ready in time 
for tea,” said Nancy. “You finish clearing up”; 
and one on each side of Cicely, they led her to her 
own bedroom, and threw open the door. The room 
was garlanded with pink and white paper roses. 
They formed festoons above the bed and were carried 
in loops round the walls, upon which had also been 
hung placards printed in large letters and coloured 
by hand. “ Welcome to our Sister,” ran one in¬ 
scription, and others were, “ There is No Place like 
Home,” “ Cicely for Ever,” and “ No Popery.” 

The twins watched eagerly for signs of surprised 
rapture and were abundantly rewarded. “ But that’s 
not all,” said Joan, and led her up to the dressing- 
table, upon which was an illuminated address 
running as follows: 

“We, the undersigned, present this token of our 
continued esteem to Cecilia Mary Clinton, on the 
occasion of her home-coming to Kencote House, 
Meadshire. Do unto others as you would be done by. 

“ Signed, Joan Ellen Clinton 

Nancy Caroline Clinton.” 


CICELY’S RETURN 


315 


I think it’s rather well done,” said Nancy, 
“ though our vermilions had both run out and we 
didn’t like to borrow yours without asking. Starling 
bought us the gold paint on condition that we put in 
the Golden Rule. It doesn’t look bad, does it. 
Cicely.'^ ” 

“ I think it’s lovely,” said Cicely. “ I shall always 
keep it. Thanks so much, darlings.” 

After the subsequent embraces, Nancy eyed her 
with some curiosity. “ I say, there was a dust-up,” 
she said. “ Have you made it up with father, 
Cis.? ” 

“ Don’t be a fool,” said Joan. “ She doesn’t want 
you bothering her. It is quite enough that we’re 
jolly glad to have her back.” 

‘‘ I was rather dull,” said Cicely, with a nervous 
little laugh, “ so I went away for a bit.” 

“ Quite right too,” said Joan. “ I should have 
done the same, and so would Nancy. We thought of 
putting up ‘ Don’t be Downtrodden,’ but we were 
afraid mother wouldn’t like it, so we put up ‘ No 
Popery ’ instead. It comes to the same thing.” 

“ We’re doing the Gordon Riots in history,” 
Nancy explained further. “ Father was awful at 
first, Cis, but he has calmed down a lot since. I 
think Dick poured oil on the troubled waters. Dick 
is a brick. He gave us half a sovereign each before 
he went up to Scotland.” 

“We didn’t ask him for it,” said Nancy. 

“ No,” said Joan, “ we only told him W€ were 


S16 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


saving up for a camera, and it took a long time out 
of a bob a week each pocket-money.” 

“ Flushed with our success,” said Nancy, “ we tried 
father; but the moment was not propitious.” 

“ It was your fault,” said Joan. ‘‘ You would 
hurry it. Directly I said, ‘ When we get our 
camera we shall be able to take photographs of the 
shorthorns,’ you heaved a silly great sigh and said, 
‘ It takes such a long time to save up with only a 
shilling a week pocket-money,’ and of course what 
could he say but that when he was our age he only 
had sixpence.^ ” 

“ I don’t believe it for a moment,” said Nancy. 

‘‘ It doesn’t matter. He had to say it. I was 
going to lead up much more slowly. How often has 
starling told you that if a thing’s worth doing at all 
it’s worth doing well ? ” 

Here Miss Bird herself appeared at the door and 
said it was just as she had expected, and had they 
heard her tell them to do a thing or had they not, 
because if they had and had then gone and done 
something else she should go straight to Mrs. Clinton, 
for she was tired of having her words set at nought, 
and it was time to take serious measures, although 
nobody would be more sorry to have to do so than 
herself, Joan and Nancy being perfectly capable of 
behaving themselves as they should if they would 
only set their minds to it and do exactly as she told 
them. 

Cicely heard the latter part of the address fading 


CICELY’S RETURN 


317 


awaj down the corridor, shut the door with a smile 
and began to take off her hat with a sigh. The chief 
ordeal was over, but there was a good deal to go 
through still before she could live in this room again 
as she had lived in it before. If, indeed, she ever 
could. She looked round her, and its familiarity 
touched her strangely. It spoke not of the years she 
had occupied it, the five years since she had left the 
nursery wing, but of the one night when she had 
prepared to leave it for ever. It would be part of 
her ordeal to have that painful and confusing memory 
brought before her whenever she entered it. She 
hated now to think of that night and of the day and 
night that had followed it. She flushed hotly as she 
turned again to her glass, and called herself a fool. 
Then she resolutely turned pictures to the wall of 
her mind and made herself think of something else, 
casting her thoughts loose to hit upon any subject 
they pleased. They struck against her aunts at the 
dower-house, and she grappled the idea and made up 
her mind to go and see them after tea, and get that 
over. 

She found them in their morning-room, engaged 
as before, except that their tea-table had been 
cleared away. “ Well, dear Aunt Ellen and Aunt 
Laura, I have come back,” she said, kissing them 
in turn. “ Muriel’s house is so pretty. You would 
love to see it.” 

But Aunt Ellen was not to be put off* in this way. 
The Squire had come down to them on the afternooi. 


818 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


of the day after Cicely had disappeared, and had 
gained more solid satisfaction from the attitude 
taken up by Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura when he 
had unfolded his news than from any reception it 
had before or after. Cicely was still in their black 
books. 

“ Oh, so you have returned at last,” said Aunt 
Ellen, receiving her kiss, but not returning it. Aunt 
Laura was not so unforgiving. She kissed her and 
said, “ O Cicely, if you had known what unhappiness 
your action would cause, I am sure you would have 
thought twice about it.” 

Cicely sat down. “ I have made it all right with 
father now,” she said. “ I would rather not talk 
about it if you don’t mind. Aunt Laura. Muriel 
sent her love to you. I said I should come and see 
you directly I came back.” 

“ When I was a girl,” said Aunt Ellen—I am 
speaking now of nearly eighty years ago—I upset a 
glass of table ale at the commencement of luncheon, 
and your great-grandfather was very angry. But 
that was nothing to this.” 

“ I have seldom seen your dear father so moved,” 
said Aunt Laura. ‘‘ I cannot see very well without 
my glasses, and I had mislaid them; they were on 
the sideboard in the dining-room where I had gone 
to get out a decanter of sherry; but I believe there 
were tears in his eyes. If it was so it should make 
you all the more sorry. Cicely.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said Cicely, “ but father has 


CICELY’S RETURN 


319 


forgiven me. Mayn’t we talk about something else? ” 

“ Your father was very high-spirited as a child,” 
said Aunt Ellen, “ and I and your aunts had some 
difficulty in managing him; not that he was a 
naughty child, far from it, but he was full of life. 
And you must always remember that he was a boy. 
But I feel quite sure that he would never in his wild¬ 
est moments have thought of going away from home 
and leaving no word of his address.” 

‘‘ I sent a telegram,” pleaded Cicely. 

‘‘ Ah, but telegrams were not invented in the days 
I am speaking of,” said Aunt Ellen. 

“ Pardon me, sister,” said Aunt Laura. “ The 
electric telegraph was invented when Edward was a 
boy, but not when we were girls.” 

“ That may be so, sister,” said Aunt Ellen. “ It 
is many years since we were girls, but I say that 
Edward would not have run away.” 

‘‘ Certainly not,” said Aunt Laura. “ You should 
never forget. Cicely, what a good father you have. 
I am sure when I heard the other day from Mr. 
Hayles that your dear father had instructed him to 
refuse Lady Alistair MacLeod’s most advantageous 
offer to rent this house, solely on account of your 
Aunt Ellen and myself, I felt that we were, indeed, 
in good hands, and fortunate to be so.” 

“ It is quite true,” said Aunt Ellen, “ that this 
house is larger than your Aunt Laura and I require. 
I told your father that with my own lips. But at the 
same time it is unlikely that at my age I have many 


320 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


more years to live, and I said that if it could be so 
arranged, I should wish to die in this house as I have 
lived in it for the greater part of my life.” 

“ He saw that at once,” said Aunt Laura. There 
is nobody that is quicker at seeing a thing than your 
dear father. Cicely. He spoke very kindly about it. 
He said we must all die some time or other, which is 
perfectly true, but that if your Aunt Ellen did not 
live to be a hundred he should never forgive her. He 
is like your dear Aunt Caroline in that; he is always 
one to look at the bright side of things.” 

“ But didn’t he tell you at once that he didn’t want 
to let the house.?” asked Cicely. “Did he leave it 
to Mr. Hayles to tell you afterwards? ” 

“ There v/as a delicacy in that,” replied Aunt 
Laura. “ If there is one thing that your dear father 
dislikes, it is being thanked. And we could not have 
helped thanking him. We had gone through a week 
of considerable anxiety.” 

“ Which he might have saved you,” Cicely thought, 
but did not say. 

“When we lived at Kencote House with our fa¬ 
ther,” said Aunt Ellen, “ it was never thought that 
the dower-house possessed any advantages to speak 
of. I do not say that we have made it what it is, for 
that would be boasting, but I do say that it would 
not be what it is if we had not made it so; and now 
that the danger is past, it causes both your Aunt 
Laura and myself much gratification, and would cause 
gratification to your other dear aunts if they could 


CICELY’S RETURN 


SU 


know what had happened, as no doubt they do, that 
it should now be sought after.” 

The topic proved interesting enough to occupy the 
conversation for the rest of Cicely’s visit. She kept 
them to it diligently and got through nearly an 
hour’s talk without further recurrence to her mis¬ 
doings. Then she took her leave rather hurriedly, 
congratulating herself that she had got safely over 
another fence. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE LIFE 

Mrs. Graham, in spite of her good points, was not 
overburdened with the maternal spirit. She had little 
love for children as children, and when her own were 
small she had lavished no great amount of affection 
on them. In the case of other people’s children she 
frankly averred that she didn’t understand them and 
preferred dogs. But she was equable by nature and 
had companionable gifts, and as Jim and Muriel had 
grown up they had found their mother pleasant to 
live with, never anxious to assert authority, and al¬ 
ways interested in such of their pursuits as chimed 
in with her own inclinations; also quite ready with 
sensible advice and some sympathy when either was 
required of her, and showing no annoyance at all if 
the advice was not followed. 

It was not altogether surprising then that Jim, 
when he had been back at Mountfield for three or 
four days, should have taken her into his confidence. 
She had heard what, thanks to the Squire, every one 
in that part of the county had heard, that Cicely had 
run off to London without taking any clothes with 
her—this point always emerged—and that Dick, and, 
for some as yet unexplained reason, Jim, had gone 
up after her. But when Jim returned, and told her 
322 


THE LIFE 


S23 

simply that Cicely was staying with Muriel and that 
everything was all right, she had asked no further 
questions, although she saw that there was some¬ 
thing that she had not been told. She had her 
reward when Jim, sitting in her drawing-room after 
dinner, told her that he would like to talk over some¬ 
thing with her. 

The drawing-room at Mountfield was a long, 
rather low room, hung with an old French paper of 
nondescript grey, upon which were some water¬ 
colours which were supposed to be valuable. The 
carpet was of faded green, with ferns and roses. 
The curtains were of thick crimson brocade under a 
gilt canopy. There was a large Chippendale mirror, 
undoubtedly valuable, over the white marble mantel¬ 
piece, upon which were three great vases of blue 
Worcester and some Dresden china figures. The 
furniture was upholstered in crimson to match the 
curtains. There was an old grand piano, there were 
one or two china cabinets against the walls, a white 
skin rug before the fire, palms in pots, a rosewood 
table or two, and a low glass bookcase with more 
china on the top of it. There was nothing modern, 
and the chairs and sofas were not particularly com¬ 
fortable. The room had always been like that ever 
since Jim could remember, and his mother, sitting 
upright in her low chair knitting stocking tops, also 
belonged to the room and gave it a comforting air of 
home. She had on a black gown and her face and 
neck were much redder than the skin beneath them. 


THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


but, like many women to whom rough tweeds and 
thick boots seem to be the normal wear, she 
looked well in the more feminine attire of the 
evening. 

“ Talk away, my dear boy,” she said, without 
raising her head. ‘‘ Two heads are better than one. 
I suppose it is something about Cicely.” 

“ When Cicely went away the other day she didn’t 
go to see Muriel; she went to marry Mackenzie.” 

She did raise her head then to throw an astonished 
look at her son, who did not meet it, but she lowered 
it again and made one or two stitches before she 
replied, “ She didn’t marry him, of course? ” 

“No. Dick and I found them, and got her away 
just in time. That is all over now, and I can’t think 
about that fellow.” 

“ Well, I won’t ask you to. But I suppose you 
won’t mind telling me why she did such an extraor¬ 
dinary thing.” 

“ Because she is bored to death at Kencote, and I 
don’t wonder at it.” 

“ And do you still intend to bring her to be bored 
to death at Mountfield ? ” 

“Yes, I do, if she will come. And I’ll see that 
she’s not bored. At least that is what I want to 
talk to you about. Muriel could tell me what she 
wants to make her happy, but I can’t go to Muriel 
as long as Cicely is there, and I can’t write; I’ve 
tried. You’ve be^n happy enough here, mother. You 
ought to be able to tell me.” 


THE LIFE 


Mrs. Graham kept silence for a considerable time. 
Then she said, “ Well, Jim, I’m glad you have come 
to me. I think I can help you. In the first place, 
you mustn’t play the martinet as Mr. Clinton does.” 

It isn’t likely I should treat her as he does Mrs. 
Clinton, if that is what you mean.” 

“ I mean a good deal more than that. If Mr. 
Clinton knew how disagreeable it was to other people 
to hear him talk to her as he does, he probably 
wouldn’t do it. But even if he didn’t he might still 
make her life a burden to her, by taking away every 
ounce of independence she had. I don’t know 
whether her life is a burden to her or not; I don’t 
pretend to understand her; but I do know that you 
couldn’t treat Cicely like that, and I suppose this 
escapade of hers proves it.” 

“ The poor old governor was a bit of a martinet,” 
said Jim, after a pause. 

“ He thought he was,” said Mrs. Graham drily. 

Jim looked at her, but did not speak. 

“ I know what it all means,” his mother went on. 

I think things over more than you would give me 
credit for, Jim, and I’ve seen it before. This quiet 
country life happens to suit me down to the ground, 
but I don’t believe it satisfies the majority of women. 
And that is what men don’t understand. It suits 
them, of course, and if it doesn’t they can always 
get away from it for a bit. But to shut women up 
in a country house all the year round, and give 
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328 THE SQUIRE^S DAUGHTER 


Mrs. Graham’s needles stopped, and then went on 
again rather more quickly. Her voice shook a little 
as she said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘‘ I suppose you 
won’t mind altering the stables for me. There is 
only one loose-box.” 

“ I thought it would be best to add on a couple 
under another roof,” said Jim, and they went on to 
discuss other alterations that would be necessary 
when Mrs. Graham should leave Mountfield to go to 
live at the Grange, but without any approach to 
sentiment, and no expressions of regret on either side. 

When they had done, and there had followed 
another of those pauses with which their conversa¬ 
tions were punctuated, Mrs. Graham said, “ You are 
making very certain of Cicely, Jim.” 

“ I’m going to claim her,” said Jim quietly. “ I 
was a fool not to do it before. I’ve wanted her 
badly enough.” 

Perhaps this news was as fresh to Mrs. Graham 
as it had been to all those others who had heard it 
lately. Perhaps it was no news at all. She was 
an observant woman and was accustomed to keep 
silence on many subjects, except when she was asked 
to speak, and then she spoke volubly. 

“ I have often wondered,” she said, “ why you left 
it so long.” 

Jim did not reply to this, but made another sur¬ 
prising statement. “ I’m going to stand for Parlia¬ 
ment,” he said. 

Mrs. Graham’s observation had not covered this 


THE LIFE 329 

possibility. “ Good gracious! ” she exclaimed. “ Not 
as a Liberal, I hope! ” 

“ No, as a Free Trade Unionist.” 

‘‘ I should think you might as well save your time 
and your money.” 

“ I don’t expect to get in. But if I can find a seat 
to fight for, ni fight.” 

“ Well, I’ll help you, Jim. I believe the others 
are right, but if you will give me something to read 
I dare say I can persuade myself that they’re 
wrong. I like a good fight, and that is one thing you 
don’t get the chance of when you live with your pigs 
and your poultry. Excuse me asking, but what about 
the money? ” 

“ I’ve settled all that, and I’m going to let this 
place for two years at least.” 

Mrs. Graham dropped her knitting once more. 
‘‘Well, really, Jim!” she said. “Have you got 
anything else startling to break to me, because I 
wish you would bring it out all at once now. I can 
bear it.” 

“ That’s all,” said Jim, with a grin. “ I shall save 
a lot of money. I shall take a flat or a little house 
in London and do some work. There are lots of 
things besides Free Trade; things I’m keener about, 
really. I don’t think Cicely will mind. I think she 
will go in with me.” 

Mrs. Graham took up her knitting again and put 
on another row of stitches. Then she said, “ I don’t 
know why you asked my advice as to what Cicely 


330 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


wanted. It seems to me you have thought it out 
pretty well for yourself.” 

Jim rode over to Kencote two days after Cicely’s 
return. It was a lovely morning, and harvesting 
was in full swing as he trotted along between the 
familiar fields. He'felt rather sad at being about 
to leave it all; he was a countryman at heart, al¬ 
though he had interests that were not bucolic. But 
there was not much room for sadness in his mind. He 
was sure of himself, and had set out to grasp a great 
happiness. 

He met the Squire on his stout cob about a mile 
from Kencote, and pulled up to speak to him. 

“How are you, Jim? ” he said heartily. “ Birds 
doing all right? Ours are first-class this year.” 

“ I was coming to see you,” he said. “ I’ve got 
something to say.” 

“ Well, say it here, my boy,” said the Squire, “ I’m 
not going to turn back.” 

So they sat on their horses in the middle of the 
road and Jim said, “ I want to marry Cicely as soon 
as possible.” 

The Squire’s jaw dropped as he stared at the 
suitor. Then he threw back his head and produced 
his loud, hearty laugh. “ Well, that’s a funny 
thing,” he said. “ I ^as only saying to my wife this 
morning that Cicely would die an old maid if she 
looked to you to come and take her.” 

Jim’s red face became a little redder, but the 


THE LIFE 


331 


Squire did not give him time to reply. I was only 
joking, you know, Jim, my boy,” he said kindly. « I 
knew you were all right, and I tell you frankly there’s 
nobody I’d sooner give my girl to. But why do you 
want to rush it now.^ What about those rascally 
death duties ? ” 

“ It’s only a question of income,” said Jim shortly, 
“ And I’m going to let Mountfield for a year or 
two.” 

The Squire’s jaw fell again. “Let Mountfield!” 
he cried. “ O my dear fellow, don’t do that, for 
God’s sake. Wait a bit longer. Cicely won’t run 
away. Ha! ha I Why she did run away—what 
Look here, Jim, you’re surely not worrying yourself 
about that. She won’t do it again. I’ll promise you 
that. I’ve talked to her.” 

“ I think it is time I took her,” said Jim, “ if she’ll 
have me.” 

“Have you.^ Of course she’ll have you. But 
you mustn’t let Mountfield. Don’t think of that, 
my boy. We’ll square it somehow, between us. My 
girl won’t come to you empty-handed, you know, and 
as long as the settlements are all right you can keep 
her a bit short for a year or two; tell her to go 
easy in the house. She’s a good girl, and she’ll do 
her best. No occasion to let down the stables, and 
you must keep a good head of game. We’ll make 
that all right, and it won’t do you any harm to 
economise a bit in other ways. In fact it’s a good 
thing for young people. You might put down your 


SS2 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


carriage for a year, and perhaps a few maids—I 
should keep the men except perhaps a gardener or 
two. Oh, there are lots of ways; but don’t let the 
place, Jim.” 

“ Well, I’ll think about it,” said Jim, who had no 
intention of prematurely disclosing his intentions to 
the Squire, “ but you’ll let me have her, Mr. Clinton.^ 
I thought of going over to see her now.” 

“Go by all means, my boy,” said the Squire 
heartily. “ You’ll find her about somewhere, only 
don’t make her late for lunch. You’ll stay, of 
course. You haven’t seen Hayles about anywhere, 
have you.^ He’s not in the office.” 

Jim had not, and the Squire trotted off to find his 
agent, with a last word of dissuasion on letting 
Mountfield. 

The ubiquitous twins were in the stableyard when 
he rode in, raiding the corn bin for sustenance for 
their fantails. “ Hullo, Jim, my boy,” said Joan. 
“ You’re quite a stranger.” 

“ You’ll stay to lunch, of course,” said Nancy. 
“ How are the birds at Mountfield ? I think we ought 
to do very well here this year.” 

“Where is Cicely?” asked Jim, ignoring these 
pleasantries. 

“ She’s out of doors somewhere,” said Joan. 
“ We’ll help you find her. We ought to be going in 
to lessons again, but starling won’t mind.” 

“ I can find her myself, thanks,” said Jim. “ Is she 
in the garden? ” 


THE LIFE 


333 


“ We’ll show you,” said Nancy. “ You can’t shake 
us off. We’re like the limpets of the rock.” 

But here Miss Bird appeared at the schoolroom 
window, adjuring the twins to come in at once, 
‘‘Oh, how do you do, Jim.?” she cried, nodding 
her head in friendly welcome. “ Do you want 
to find Cicely she has gone down to the lake to 
sketch.” 

“ Bother! ” exclaimed Joan. “ Starling is so 
officious.” 

“ You will find our sister in the Temple of Melan¬ 
choly,” said Nancy. “ It will be your part to smooth 
the lines of trouble from her brow.” 

“ Oh, coming, coming. Miss Bird! ” called out 
Joan. “We’ve only got an hour more, Jim—spell¬ 
ing and dictation; then we will come and look you 
up.” 

Jim strode off across the park and entered the 
rhododendron dell by an iron gate. He followed a 
broad green path between great banks of shrubs and 
under the shade of trees for nearly a quarter of a 
mile. Every now and then an open grassy space 
led to the water, which lay very still, ringed with 
dark green. He turned down one of these and 
peeped round the edge of a bush from whence he 
could see the white pillared temple at the head of the 
lake. Cicely was sitting in front of it, drawing, and 
his heart gave a little leap as he saw her. Then he 
walked more quickly, and as he neared the temple 
began to whistle, for he knew that, thinking herself 


334 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


quite alone, Cicely would be disagreeably startled if 
he came upon her suddenly. 

Perhaps she thought it was a gardener who was 
coming, for she did not move until he spoke her 
name, coming out from behind the building on to the 
stained marble platform in front of it. Then she 
looked up with a hot blush. ‘‘ O Jim I ” she said 
nervously. “ I was just trying to paint a picture.” 

“ It’s jolly good,” said Jim, looking at it with his 
head on one side, although she had not as yet gone 
further than light pencil lines. 

“ It won’t be when I’ve finished,” she said hurriedly. 
“ How is Mrs. Graham? I am coming over to see her 
as soon as I can, to tell her about Muriel.” 

‘‘ She’s all right, thanks,” said Jim. ‘‘ She sent 
her love. Do you mind my watching you? ” 

“ I’d much rather you didn’t,” she said, with a 
deprecating laugh. “ I shall make an awful hash of 
it. Do you want to see father? I’ll go and find 
him with you if you like.” 

‘‘ No, I’ve seen him,” said Jim, going into the 
temple to get himself a chair. “ I’ve come to see 
you, to tell you something I thought you’d be inter¬ 
ested in. I want to stand for Parliament, and I’m 
going to let Mountfield.” 

She looked up at him with a shade of relief in 
her face. “ 0 Jim,” she said, “ I do hope you will 
get in.” 

“ Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t expect to get 
in,” said Jim. They won’t have fellows who think 


THE LIFE 


335 


as I do in the party now if they can help it. But 
there’s a good deal to do outside that. I kept my 
eyes open when I was travelling, and I do know a 
bit about the Colonies, and about land too. There 
are societies I can make myself useful in, even if I 
don’t get into Parliament. Anyway I’m going to 
try.” 

“ I am so glad, Jim,” said Cicely. But won’t 
you miss Mountfield awfully And where are you 
going to live.f^ ” 

“In London for a year or two. Must be in the 
thick of things.” 

“ I suppose you won’t go before the spring.” 

“ I want to. It depends on you. Cicely.” 

She had nothing to say. The flush that coloured 
her delicate skin so frequently, flooded it now. 

“ I want you to come and help me,” said Jim. “ I 
can’t do it without you, my dear. You’re much clev¬ 
erer than I am. I want to get to know people, and 
I’m not much good at that. And I don’t know that 
I could put up with London, living there by myself. 
If you were with me I shouldn’t care where I lived. 
I would rather live all my life at Melbury Park with 
you, than at Mountfield without you.” 

“ O Jim,” she said in a low voice, bending over her 
drawing board, “ you are good and generous. But 
you can’t want me now.” 

“ Look here. Cicely dear,” he said, “ let’s get over 
that business now, and leave it alone for ever. I 
blame myself for it, I blame—that man, but I 


336 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


haven’t got the smallest little piece of blame for you, 
and I shouldn’t have even if I didn’t love you. Why, 
even Dick is the same. He was angry at first, but 
not after he had seen you. And Walter thinks as I 
do. I saw him one day and we had it all out; you 
didn’t know. There’s not a soul who knows who 
blames you, and nobody ever will.” 

‘‘ I know,” she said, “ that every one has been most 
extraordinarily kind. I love Dick and Walter more 
than ever for it, because I know how it must have 
struck them when they first knew. And you too, 
Jim. It makes me feel such a beast to think how 
sweet you were to me, and how I’ve treated you.” 

Jim took her hand. “ Cicely, darling,” he said. 

I’m a slow fellow, and, I’m afraid, rather stupid. 
If I hadn’t been this would never have happened. 
But I believe I’m the only person in the world that 
can make you forget it. You’ll let me try, won’t 
you.? ” 

She tried to draw away her hand, but he held it. 

“ Oh, I don’t know what to say,” she cried. ‘‘ It 
is all such a frightful muddle. I don’t even know 
whether I love you or not. I do; you know that, 
Jim. But I don’t know whether I love you in the 
right way. I thought before that I didn’t. And 
how can I when I did a thing like that.? I’m a girl 
who goes to any man who calls her.” 

She was weeping bitterly. All the shame in her 
heart surged up. She pulled her hand away and 
covered her face. 


THE LIFE 


337 


You never loved that man—not for a moment,” 
said Jim firmly. 

“ No, I didn’t,” she cried. “ I hate him now, and I 
believe I hated him all the time. If I were to meet 
him I should die of shame. Oh, why did I do it.^ 
And I feel ashamed before you, Jim. I can’t marry 
you. I can’t see you any more. I am glad you are 
going away.” 

“ I am not going unless you come with me. Cicely,” 
he said. “ I want you. I want you more than ever; 
I understand you better. If this hadn’t happened 
I shouldn’t have known what you wanted; I don’t 
think I should have been able to make you happy. 
Good heavens ! do you think I believe that you wanted 
that man.^ I know you didn’t, or I shouldn’t be here 
now. You wanted life, and I had never offered you 
that. I do offer it you now. Come and help me to 
do what I’m going to do. I can’t do any of it with¬ 
out you.” 

She smiled at him forlornly. ‘‘ You are good,” 
she said. “ And you have comforted me a little. 
But you can’t forget what has happened. It isn’t 
possible.” 

“ Look here, my dear,” said Jim simply. “ Will 
you believe me when I say that I have forgotten it 
already.^ That is to say it doesn’t come into my 
mind. I don’t have to keep it out; it doesn’t come. 
I’ve got other things to think of. There’s all the 
future, and what I’m going to do, and you are going 
to help me to do. Really, if I thought of it, I ought 


338 THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


to be glad you did what you did, in a way, for all I’ve 
thought of since comes from that. I saw what you 
were worth and what you could make of a man if he 
loved you as I do, and you loved him. We won’t 
play at it. Cicely. I’m in earnest. I shall be a 
better fellow all round if I’m trying to do something 
and not only sitting at home and amusing myself. 
We shall have to make some sacrifices. We shall 
only be able to afford a flat or a little house in Lon¬ 
don. I must keep things going here and put by a 
bit for an election, perhaps. But I know you won’t 
mind not having much money for a time. We shall 
be together, and there won’t be a thing in my life 
that you won’t share.” 

She had kept her eyes fixed upon him as he spoke. 
“Do you really mean it, Jim?” she asked quietly. 
“ Do you really want me, out of all the people in the 
world ? ” 

“ I don’t want anybody but you,” he said, “ and I 
don’t want anything without you.” 

“ Then I will come with you, dearest Jim,” she said. 
“And I will never want anything except what you 
want all my life.” 

He took her in his arms, and she nestled there, 
laughing and crying by turns, but happier than she 
had ever thought she could be. They talked of a 
great many things, but not again of Cicely’s flight. 
Jim had banished that spectre, which, if it returned 
to haunt her thoughts again, would not affright them. 
They came no nearer to it than a speech of Cicely’s. 


THE LIFE 


339 


I do love you, dear Jim. I love you so much that 
I must have loved you all the time without knowing 
it. I feel as if there was something in you that I 
could rest on and know that it will never give way.” 

“And that’s exactly how I feel about you,” said 
Jim. 

Two swans sailed out into the middle of the lake, 
creasing the still water into tiny ripples. The air 
was hot and calm, and the heavy leaves of trees and 
shrubs hung motionless. The singing-birds were 
silent. Only in the green shade were the hearts of 
the two lovers in tumult—a tumult of gratitude and 
confident happiness. 

The peace, but not the happiness, was brought to 
an end when the twins, relaxed from bondage, 
heralded their approach by a vociferous rendering 
of “ The Campbells are coming.” They came round 
the temple arm-in-arm. Cicely was drawing, and Jim 
looking on. 

“Yes, that’s all very well,” said Joan, “but it 
doesn’t take two hours to make three pencil 
scratches.” 

“ Girls without the nice feeling that we possess,” 
said Nancy, “ would have burst upon you without 
warning.” 

“ Without giving you time to set to partners,” said 
Joan. 

Cicely looked up at them; her face was full of 
light. “ Shall I tell them, Jim.? ” she said. 

“ Got to, I suppose,” said Jim. 


mo THE SQUIRE’S DAUGHTER 


“ My child,” said Joan, “ you need tell us nothing.” 

‘‘ Your happy faces tell us all,” said Nancy. 

Then, with a simultaneous relapse into humanity, 
they threw themselves upon her affectionately, and 
afterwards attacked Jim in the same way. He bore 
it with equanimity. 

‘‘ You don’t deserve her, Jim,” said Joan, ‘‘ but we 
trust you to be kind to her.” 

“ From this day onwards,” said Nancy, “ you will 
begin a new life.” 


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